Crack!
Bako’s shot went wild.
The two gunmen on the other side of the truck spun around, spraying bullets at the yellow car in a deafening barrage. The third gunman grabbed Hank, using him for a shield, blocking any chance of Sam taking him out. “Remi,” Sam shouted into the phone.
She fired before he finished saying her name.
The gunman fell to the ground, taking Hank with him. The man near the front of the truck stepped out into the road, belatedly realizing the shot came from the grass. He swung his rifle in Remi’s direction. Sam fired twice. He fell back against the truck.
Makao, seeing his men fall, ducked behind the Land Rover, then raced to the pickup, jumping in. The lone surviving gunman raced after him, grabbing on to the tailgate as the vehicle sped off.
Sam kept his sights on the truck, waiting until the dust settled to make sure it wasn’t circling back. Finally, he glanced in Remi’s direction, not yet seeing her in the tall grass.
He grabbed his phone. “Remi . . .”
“Here.”
“Keep the others down. Let’s make sure it’s clear.”
They rose at the same time, guns at the ready, and walked toward the three vehicles.
The only thing moving was Hank, his breathing shallow, his face pale, as he struggled to his feet, trying to push the dead man off him.
“Stay there,” Sam ordered and moved to the right as Remi moved to the left, checking the downed men, kicking any weapons out of reach in case anyone had miraculously survived.
They were all dead.
“Clear,” he called out.
“Same,” Remi said as they met on the other side of the supply truck. They circled back. “It’s safe,” she shouted. “You can come out.”
Amal and Nasha slowly rose, the young girl reaching for Amal’s shaking hand as they made their way through the tall grass.
Sam eyed the dusty pair. “Nice job blending in.”
“The child’s a natural,” Remi said, then, in a lower voice, added, “I hate to think how she knows what she knows.”
That sort of knowledge didn’t come from living in the city—or a peaceful village. “Definitely makes you wonder,” Sam replied, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen assault rifles. He turned on the safety and slung the gun across his back.
Hank rose to his feet, leaning against the truck, his frightened gaze landing on Nasha. “You stole my keys. Those men were after you.”
Nasha ducked behind Amal.
“Pointing fingers gets us nowhere,” Sam said, not wanting to spend any more time there than necessary. The longer they remained, the greater the risk those robbers would return with reinforcements. “Remi, make sure we haven’t missed any stray guns. Hank, why don’t you have a seat in the car, turn on the AC. Amal . . .” He was about to order her to join Hank. Seeing her ashen tone, he tempered his voice. “Are you going to be okay?”
She gave a faltering smile. “I . . . I think what I need is fresh air.”
“Nasha,” Sam said. “Come with me.” He started walking toward the Kalus’ bullet-riven car, then stopped when he realized the kid hadn’t moved from Amal’s side. Instead, she watched him with a healthy dose of suspicion and wariness.
Remi cleared her throat and he looked at her blankly, raising his brows in hopes she’d clue him in to whatever she was thinking.
“Nasha,” Remi said. “I think my husband wants to ask you a few questions in private. You can trust him.”
She shook her head. “I don’t trust any man.”
Of that, Sam had no doubt, especially coming from a child who knew the skills she knew. “Remi?”
She held her hand toward the girl. Nasha took it and Remi guided her toward Sam, who was standing near the dead men by the supply truck. The girl refused to look at the bodies.
As much as Sam hated what he was about to do, he didn’t have much choice. “I need you to look at them. Do you know them?”
She hesitated, slowly turned, her gaze skimming across their faces before turning back, pressing herself into Remi’s side. “No,” she whispered.
He led her past the supply truck toward the yellow car. “You know them?”
She glanced at them, then quickly looked away. “Yes.”
“Who are they and why are they here?”
“I told you. The Kalu brothers. They came to rob you.”
“Why?”
“Because you stole their car.”
“You mean you stole the car.”
“I found it. I only stole the keys. But the Kalus said it was theirs. And they wanted your truck. They stole the last one.”
“Did they send you?”
She shook her head but refused to look at him.
“Nasha . . .” He saw her shoulders tensing and kneeled down in front of her. “Why did you come?”
She stole a glance at the dead man on the passenger’s side and looked at Sam, her dark eyes welling with tears. “Bako wanted to smash my fingers because I . . . I tried to hide the money that Mrs. Fargo gave me.”
Had the man not already been dead, Sam would have killed him right then and there. He stood, trying to reconcile what had happened with what little he’d learned from her. “You think they called some friends to help them?”
“No,” she whispered.
“The men in the white truck. You’re sure you’ve never seen them before?”
She shook her head. “I’ve only ever heard of Scarface. The Kalus work alone. They have no friends.”
Sam gave her shoulder a gentle pat. “No more questions. Why don’t you wait in the car. You’ll be much cooler in there.”
Nasha shook her head again. “I don’t like that man.”
“Hank?” Remi asked. “Why?”
“Because he doesn’t like me.”
“To be fair, you did steal his keys.”
“He was easy.” Nasha glanced toward Amal. “What’s wrong with your friend?”
Remi saw Amal’s distant gaze. She was either in the middle of one of her seizures or about to have one. “She’ll be okay. Do you think you can hold her hand and get her to the car?”
Nasha, no doubt anxious to get away, nodded, then hurried toward her.
Remi joined Sam by the Kalus’ vehicle. “Amal had another seizure.”