Crack! Crack!
Two shots hit the dirt in front of the white pickup. The shooter, the driver of the yellow car, draped his arm over his open door, his handgun haphazardly pointed toward the new visitors. “This cargo belongs to us. Leave.”
“Didn’t see that coming,” Remi whispered. “Different groups?”
“Looks like it,” Sam said. Ears ringing from the gunshots, she barely heard his low voice coming from her phone. “This is not going to end well.”
Though she couldn’t see Sam, she knew he was positioned on the same side of the road to her right—which meant he had a far better view of the pickup’s occupants. The driver stuck both hands out his open door to prove he wasn’t armed. “Don’t shoot,” he shouted. Tall and slim, he had a scar running down the left side of his face. He stood next to his truck, staring at the Kalu brothers. “I’m sure we can work this out in a friendly manner.”
“Scarface,” Nasha whispered.
“Makao?” Bako seemed shocked to see him. “I . . . I didn’t know it was you.”
“So I see. Turn around and we’ll just forget this happened.” Makao gave a semi-smile to his would-be attackers.
Bako’s brother motioned with his gun. “This cargo is ours.”
“Keep it.” Makao rubbed at the scar on his cheek, then slid behind the wheel. He backed the pickup, made a three-point turn, but instead of driving off, he stopped the vehicle. Two men pointing assault rifles jumped up from the pickup bed. A deafening rat-a-tat-tat followed as they peppered the Kalu brothers, their bodies jerking from the force of the bullets. Nasha stifled a sob as they slumped to the ground. Though Remi wanted to comfort the child, she didn’t dare let down her guard. Thankfully, Amal reached over, placing her shaking hand on the child’s shoulder, whispering something in her ear.
“Remi?” Sam’s low voice from her phone brought a sense of relief. They were in this together. They’d get out of it the same way.
“We’re fine,” she said as the two shooters hopped out of the pickup bed. They circled around the far side of the Fargos’ Land Rover, aiming their rifles at it. One glanced in, then pointed toward the supply truck. They walked past it, the lower part of their legs visible beneath the truck’s chassis. When they reached the cargo area, one stopped behind the rear wheel. The other continued on, eyeing the Kalu brothers sprawled on either side of the yellow car. Deciding they no longer posed a threat, he turned back toward the truck, pulling up the canvas to look underneath. “No one back here,” he shouted.
Makao, who remained at the driver’s door of the white pickup, said something to his passenger. The man got out, walked toward the supply truck, his weapon aimed at the door behind which Hank hid.
Remi followed him with her gun sight. “Sam . . .”
“Do not take that shot, Remi. They’ll know where you are.”
She kept her finger on the trigger. “We can’t just—”
“Yes. We can. There are two more gunmen on the other side of the truck. Without a way to draw them out, we’re trapped.”
He was right. Both men had taken cover, one behind the rear wheel, the other behind the front, no doubt aiming at the truck’s door in case someone came charging out on that side. “This worked so much better in Mozambique,” she said.
“Yeah, well, there were about five less gunmen.”
A sharp intake of breath from Nasha caught her attention. “Look, Mrs. Fargo. Bako’s moving.”
She followed the direction of the girl’s gaze, seeing Bako on the ground, slowly reaching for his gun. “Sam. By the yellow car. He could be our distraction.”
“They’ll kill him before he ever gets a second shot. We need something else.”
Once again, her husband was right. Unless they found a way to draw those other two onto this side of the supply truck, they’d still be outgunned and outmanned. Her gaze hit on the Land Rover. “Amal, where’s your phone?”
“In the car.”
“Get ready, Fargo.” Remi slid her phone toward Amal and raised her gun sight, taking aim. “Time to even those odds.”
Sam’s soft laugh sounded in the phone just before Amal called the number. A moment later the faint but shrill ring of her phone sounded from the open car window.
Scarface held up one hand. “Wait,” he said, then walked toward the Rover.
Remi smiled to herself when she saw one of the two men on the far side of the supply truck move toward the engine block, his head and shoulders visible over the hood. “Come on . . .” she whispered, hoping the remaining gunman would step into view.
To her right, Scarface reached into the window and pulled out Amal’s purse, fishing out her phone. When it stopped ringing, Amal ended the call. He narrowed his gaze, tossed the phone and purse into the car, and looked over at the man standing next to the supply truck. He nodded.
The gunman yanked open the truck door, pointing his weapon inside.
Hank cowered on the floorboards, covering his face with his arms. “Don’t shoot,” he cried.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A fight between grasshoppers is a joy to the crow.
– BASOTHO PROVERB –
Sam, his finger on the trigger of his Smith & Wesson .38, watched with clinical detachment as the gunman pulled Hank from the truck’s cab. Like Remi, Sam was belly-down in the grass, his phone set out in front of him. The screen lit up as Remi called him back. He answered, then gave a quick glance toward the lone survivor sprawled in the dirt near the yellow car. The man slowly lifted his gun in a vain attempt to take down his four attackers. He was bleeding out fast and Sam didn’t know if he’d even have the strength to get off a shot.
“Hold . . .” Sam said softly into his phone. Remi, an expert sharpshooter, could easily drop the man holding the gun to Hank, and was no doubt worried about his safety. At the moment, Sam didn’t care if Hank lived or died. He wasn’t about to risk his wife’s life, or that of Amal and Nasha, because the man was too stupid to follow instructions.
The gunman pointed his weapon at the archeologist’s chest. “Where are the others?”
Hank scooted back, hitting the side of the truck, looking around in desperation, whether for them or to escape, Sam couldn’t tell.
“Tell . . . me . . . where . . . they . . . are . . .” With each word, he shoved the barrel of his gun against Hank’s chest.
“They just ran.”
“Which direction?”
“I . . . I didn’t see.” Hank’s gaze flicked to the side of the road. “Too much dust.”