The Taste of Fear (25 page)

“Stop this right now, Sal. You’re acting like a child.”

Thunder put a hand on her shoulder and lumbered to his feet, looking terribly weak. “Listen, mate—”

Sal swung a right hook. It connected squarely with Thunder’s face, knocking him backward into the wall. Blood dribbled from his nose, tracing the groove of his upper lip.

“Stop it!” Scarlett shouted.

Miranda and Joanna came awake, confused and alarmed.

Thunder lowered his shoulder and bowled into Sal’s gut, lifting him off his feet and dive-bombing him to the floor. Both men spat out breathless “Oomphs” upon impact. They rolled back and forth, their arms and legs intertwined, each struggling to gain the advantage.

A frantic shout came from outside.

Everyone in the room—including Sal and Thunder—turned to stare at the door. More cries of alarm followed the first.

“What does that mean?” Miranda asked.

Before anyone could hazard a guess, the door flung open and Jahja appeared. His eyes were wild and wide. He looked at each of them in turn. He paused on Joanna.

“You!” he said. “Come outside! Now.”

“Why?” Joanna asked, clearly frightened.

Jahja aimed a black pistol at her. “Obey me! Or I will shoot you right here.”

Joanna kissed Miranda on the forehead, then went to the front of the room. Her face was white, her jaw set. She looked like a woman walking to her execution. Jahja grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her outside. The door banged shut behind them.

Scarlett glanced at Sal and Thunder, who both appeared as clueless as she felt.

She hurried to the door and inched it open and peered out between the crack.

Jahja was dragging Joanna toward the three other gunmen—all of whom had their guns trained on a tall man dressed head to toe in black and covered in camouflage.

Scarlett’s knees went weak.

Who was he? Army? Marines?

Could it be true? Were they about to be rescued?

“There’s someone out there,” she said, her voice husky.

Sal was immediately behind her, looking over her head. “What the bloody hell is
he
doing here?”

Scarlett’s mind spun. “You know him?”

“That’s Benjamin Hill.”

“Who? Jesus, you’re right!”
Benjamin Hill.
Nothing made sense right then. She didn’t have the chance to work it out, however, because just then Jahja pulled Joanna against his chest and shoved the barrel of the pistol against her temple.

“Tell them to come out!” he shouted. “Tell the rest of your men to come out of the forest or I will blow her brains out!”

The Irishman didn’t reply.

“Call them out!”

No reply.

Jahja turned in a tight circle, glaring at the trees as if they were sentient beings staring back. “Come out. Come out now! Or I will shoot her. On the count of three. One!”

He danced in a circle.

Joanna started to cry.

“Two!”

“No!” Scarlett shouted.

Jahja and the other gunmen whirled toward her.

Creep fired a round into the air.

Scarlett stumbled backward into the room. The door swung shut.

“Three!”

An electric silence followed. It seemed to stretch on forever. With each passing second, relief crept over Scarlett. Jahja wasn’t going to do it. He was only bluffing—

A gunshot rang out.

After shooting the middle-aged woman in the back of the head, execution style, the leader with the burned face commanded the three gunmen with the AKs—two AK-47s, one AKM—to secure Fitzgerald to a chair in the left-wing transept of the church. That’s where he was sitting now. Across from him, the arching stained-glass windows cast washed-out colors across the bare walls and stone tiles, highlighting dust motes drifting lazily in the air.

The leader held up
Carnwennan.
“This is military issue, yes?”

Fitzgerald said nothing.

“It’s old. You’re old. What is your rank?”

Fitzgerald said nothing.

“Green Beret? You are Green Beret? Or Navy SEAL?”

He said nothing.

“How did you find us?”

He said nothing.

“I don’t have the patience for such games.” The ugly sod pointed a nine-millimeter Ruger P38 at Fitzgerald’s head. “Maybe I’ll shoot you right now.”

Fitzgerald stared past the pistol. He’d interrogated more people over the years than he could count, and he knew the procedure inside out. Knew the best course of action was to keep quiet for as long as possible. The reasoning was simple. The longer you could get by without saying anything, the better your chances were the situation on the ground might change, and with that, the possibility of escape. Not to mention if he told his compatriot here he was alone, the man would likely kill him on the spot. On the other hand, the less he knew about Fitzgerald, the longer he’d keep him around in an attempt to glean information.

The leader lowered the pistol and sighed. “My name is Jahja al-Ahmad,” he said genially, suddenly the good guy. “What is your name?” He was doing it all textbook style, as predictable as a sunrise. Fitzgerald would have applauded had he been able. “Would you like food? Water?”

Fitzgerald didn’t answer.

“Are there others like you around?”

He didn’t answer.

“Are they behind? Are they coming?”

He didn’t answer.

“How did you get here?”

Fitzgerald cracked his neck.

“Where are the men on my boat? I can’t reach them? What did you do to them?”

He didn’t answer.

Jahja glowered at him for a long moment, then crossed the room to a table and returned with a pen. He slipped the pen between Fitzgerald’s knuckles and squeezed Fitzgerald’s fingers together, slowly, applying more and more pressure. It was an old trick and much more painful than it sounded. It felt as if the bones in his fingers were about to break.

Jahja asked more questions; Fitzgerald gritted his teeth and didn’t answer them. Jahja finally gave up and barked something in Arabic to one of his men, who went outside and returned with a three-foot-long two-by-four.

“Okay,” Jahja said, smiling hideously. “Let’s try this one more time.”

Scarlett was in some kind of shock. She could think of only one thing.

Joanna.

Dead.

After hearing the report of the gunshot, she had stuck her head out the door and saw Joanna lying face down, blood encircling her head, coloring the brown dirt black. Sal had put his arm around her shoulder and said something. Words of comfort likely. She couldn’t remember what they were. They were just words. Words wouldn’t change anything.

Joanna was dead. And she or Sal or Thunder or Miranda was going to be next.

Distantly, from what seemed nauseatingly far away, she became aware of Sal and Thunder talking about the Irishman, their animosity between one another at least temporarily suspended. It took her an immense effort, but she managed to pull herself out of the stupor. The room came back into focus—colors, shapes, sounds.

“He’s an assassin,” Sal was saying as he paced back and forth.

“Who’s he here to kill?” Thunder asked.

Whatever burst of adrenaline he’d had earlier was gone. He was slumped against the opposite wall, his arms folded against his chest, shivering. The tan had drained from his face, leaving it a sickly pale white. Caked blood covered the gash in his forehead from the car crash, while more blood, still fresh and bright, smeared his mouth and jaw.

“Me,” Sal replied. “He was trying to kill me.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Good. I’d rather not get into it.”

“Sal made enemies with a man he used to work with,” Scarlett told Thunder, her voice sounding oddly robotic to her ears. “A man with a lot of shady connections.” She looked at Sal. “You really think Benjamin Hill is the person after you?”

“What else is he doing here? Besides, Danny told me the second assassin was an Irishman.”

She frowned. “You never told me that.”

“Why would I?”

“Why
wouldn’t
you?”

“I never made the connection before now.”

The fuzz cleared, and Scarlett became more incredulous by the second. Her voice was no longer robotic; it was fiery. “How could you not, Sal? Danny tells you an Irishman is after you. One shows up at the resort where we’re staying. I even mentioned he likely wasn’t a guest.”

“I know all of that,” Sal snapped. “You think I didn’t connect the dots? But it made no sense. If he had wanted to kill me, he could have done it anytime. He didn’t.”

“How did he—?” Thunder swallowed. “How did he find you?”

“Thunder is right, Sal. How did he find you—us? How did one man accomplish what the entire U.S. armed forces failed to do?”

“He followed us. It’s the only explanation.”

Scarlett ran the logistics through her head. “He couldn’t have known we would be robbed. Couldn’t have known we’d be making a detour to the embassy. Which means he must have either followed Thunder and me, or you. Did you see him on the plane?”

“Yes,
cara mia.
I offered him the window seat.”

She ignored that. “It was one of those small turboprops, right?”

“When you’re out shopping, do you check to see if you’re being followed?”

“Let’s assume he was on the plane, for argument’s sake. Then what? How did you get from the airport to the embassy?”

“They sent a car for me.”

“So he followed you to the embassy—and what? Watched us get thrown in the van? Then he followed us again for maybe ten, fifteen hours?” She shook her head. “We stopped in the middle of nowhere at one point. You might not have been looking for a tail, but the terrorists certainly would have been.”

“Who the hell cares how he did it? Danny said the man was good. And Danny doesn’t award compliments liberally.”

“Whacking vice.”

Scarlett looked at Thunder. His condition seemed to be deteriorating by the minute. She scooted over next to him and felt his temperature. It was even hotter than it had been the night before. “What did you say, Thunder?”

“Tracking device.”

Sal snorted. “Let’s not get carried away here.”

“Jeepy—” He shivered. “GPS.”

Sal laughed bitterly.

“Would you leave him alone?” Scarlett said. “Can’t you see he’s—”

“Dying?”

“Sick. He’s sick, you, you—” She trailed off, unable to think of a suitable insult. “And what’s so far-fetched about a tracking device?”

“When would he have had a chance to attach a transmitter to the van? Or boat, for that matter?”

“Maybe it’s smaller than you think. What about your clothes? Maybe he slipped it on you during the drive up the crater. Or maybe he was in our room when we were out.”

Sal stopped pacing.

“Check your clothes,” she said.

While he took off his blazer and searched the pockets, she examined her sandals, dress, everywhere but didn’t find—

“Found something.” Sal was kneading the crimson lining at the hem fold of the blazer’s back vent. He tore the fabric and shook the garment until a small metallic something fell to the floor. He picked it up. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I should have known it. His name, Benny Hill, he was mocking us the entire time.”

Scarlett was stunned and numbed. Benjamin Hill was the assassin. Lightheaded, she recalled their meeting on the deck overlooking Ngorongoro Crater.

Have you been down there, Mr . . . ?

Hill, Benjamin Hill. And no, not yet. I’ll be going tomorrow as well.

Perhaps we’ll see each other?

Perhaps we will, Miss Cox.

She remembered the strange smile he’d given her when she and Sal had transferred from his truck to the ranger’s Land Rover. Had he had something planned for them, something that didn’t work out? Had they narrowly escaped death? The skin on her scalp seemed to shrink a size.

“What’s his real name?” she asked.

“Damien Fitzgerald. At least, that’s what Danny thinks. He’s not certain.”

“What else did Danny tell you about him?”

“Nothing. Nobody knows anything about the man. He’s a damn ghost.”

“Nothing?”

Sal shrugged. “His wife and kid were murdered. He goes by the name Redstone. What a chump.”