The Hunters (23 page)

“Yeah, Frenchie,” Parson said. “Thanks. Here, take my weapon.”

Parson fished into a leg pocket and found his penlight again. He turned on the light and handed the Beretta to Chartier. Told him the safety was off but the hammer was down.

“Not as powerful as that hand cannon of yours,” Parson whispered, “but it'll give you a lot more rounds. Magazine's full.”

“Merci.”

Parson chuckled to himself. Even in the direst circumstances, Chartier managed courtesy. Not one of Parson's strong suits, but he recognized politeness as a good leadership technique. Maintaining social graces reminded everybody you were in control of the situation and of yourself. As an officer, Parson had other ways of inspiring confidence—just not that one. Gotta work on it, he thought.

Chartier followed the beam of the penlight to take his place on the steps. As he moved, he took care not to bump Geedi, Gold, or Stewart. The amber glow revealed Geedi snoozing with his mouth open. Stewart was awake. She looked at Parson, and Parson nodded as a kind of truce gesture. Gold slept with her hands clasped over her knees, as if in prayer.

Parson gave Chartier the penlight and moved to sit next to Gold. The Frenchman turned off the light. In the darkness, Parson considered how the meager store of food in this hole probably represented everything Nadif and his wife owned. Back home, Parson had a nice condo, a healthy balance in the Thrift Savings Plan, and a Chevy Silverado that still smelled new. He was even thinking about buying his own aircraft—maybe getting an old Stearman biplane to restore.

And I'm no more deserving than Nadif, he thought. I just won the lottery in terms of opportunities.

He hoped his group could get out of here without causing the old couple any more grief and loss than they'd already suffered. To live with such grinding poverty was bad enough, but they also had to contend with constant threats of violence. Parson wished you could remove people's capacity for destruction the way you could slide a component out of an airplane's avionics bay—just pop the latches, twist loose the cannon plugs, and it's gone.

That was his last conscious thought before slipping into a deep and dreamless sleep. The next thing he knew, Geedi was shaking his arm; evidently Geedi had relieved Frenchie on watch.

Parson blinked his eyes and squinted. At that moment, the penlight in Geedi's fist glared bright as the landing lights on a C-5.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” Geedi whispered. “Something's going on in Nadif's house.”

H
ussein did not remember falling down. He certainly did not remember passing out again. He knew only he'd reached a spot where the creek bed passed near a collection of thatched-roof huts, just as darkness fell. The huts seemed a likely spot to look for the
gaalos
, so he'd forced himself to keep moving, to search the homes. But climbing out of the creek bed had proved too much for his wounded and tired body.

He awoke inside a hut, lying on his back on a rug or blanket. A single lamp cast looming shadows against the wall. An old man and an old woman bent over him. The woman wiped his face with a wet rag.

“Thank you, grandmother,” Hussein said. He was not hallucinating; he knew very well this woman was not his real grandmother. In fact, he had never met either of his grandmothers; both had died before he was born. But he used the term as a courtesy. These people were helping him in his moment of weakness; perhaps that meant they were good Muslims.

Though Hussein's body had failed him, his mind remained alert. Where were his rifle and machete? The blade no longer hung on his belt, and he did not see his AK-47. The old couple must have taken his weapons when they found him outside. Maybe they had put his rifle and blade aside for safekeeping. Of course, the weapons would have made clear to anyone he was a jihadi.

The cool water on the rag made Hussein feel better, and he tried to sit up. He raised himself up onto his elbows . . . and the hut began to spin.

Bad idea.

He felt a little sick, almost like the seasickness he'd experienced on that boat to Djibouti. Hussein let himself slump back down onto the blanket.

“Rest, my son,” the woman said.

Hussein wanted to ask if she'd seen any
gaalos
in the area, anyone who looked foreign. But he decided to bide his time, to wait before letting the couple know anything more about himself or his holy mission.

The woman put a clay cup to his lips. He raised his head and sipped lukewarm water. When he finished the water, the woman went into the shadows with her husband on the far side of the hut. They discussed something in hushed tones; Hussein could not make out the words. Eventually the woman raised her voice, and Hussein clearly heard, “No, we mustn't do that.”

“True,” the man said. “He is only a child.”

“If he were a man it would be different.”

I
am
a man, Hussein thought. And what mustn't you do?

Now he began to worry. Why the whispering? Were these people
kafirs
? Were they unfaithful? If they had wanted to kill him they could have done so already.

“He needs a doctor,” the woman said.

“There are no doctors among them,” the man said.

Doctors among who? What were these people talking about?

Hussein wanted his rifle. Maybe the old couple were faithful; he did not know enough to judge. But he did not like the sound of this conversation.

He sat up. Caught a glimpse of his AK lying on the floor, just a few feet away. Hussein tried to stand and reach for the weapon—and he collapsed. The woman came back with the wet rag.

“Stop, my child,” the woman said. “You are hurt.”

“Why were you alone?” the man asked. “Were there others with you?”

“I do not know where they went,” Hussein said. Then he cursed himself. He should not have answered the question without knowing more about these people.

“As my wife says,” the man continued, “you are hurt. You are only a boy, and they should not have made you fight. There are people here with a bag of medicine, and they may be able to help you. You must stay quiet and still.”

Now Hussein really worried.

“I am not a boy,” Hussein said. “I am a man, and I am a fighter. You know nothing. I have killed
kafirs
and infidels.”

“For your own sake,” the man said, “you must rest, keep your voice down, and do what we tell you.”

Such talk angered Hussein. Got the better of his judgment. Made him forget his resolve to tell these people nothing.

“I am a jihadi,” he hissed. “You must do as
I
say.”

He tried to get up again, but the man kneeled beside him and pushed him back down. On any other day, Hussein could have overpowered the old man, driven a blade through his throat. But Hussein had no strength to resist. The man held him to the floor with one arm.

“Tie his hands,” the man said. “And find something for a gag. He has decided to make himself a nuisance.”

Hussein struggled, pointlessly. He could do nothing except wear himself out. In a few seconds, the old couple bound his wrists together in front of him and tied a rag over his mouth—the same wet rag that had brought him such relief minutes ago.

“I will kill you,” Hussein tried to growl. The gag garbled his words.

“You are lucky we haven't killed you,” the man said, “after what your kind has done to my family. But I cannot murder a child.”

If you have felt Allah's justice, Hussein thought, then you deserved it. Hussein lacked the strength to fight his bonds. He lay back sweating, breathing hard.

The old couple spoke to each other again. This time they made no effort to keep Hussein from hearing.

“Shall we show them?” the woman asked.

“I do not think it matters,” the man said. “Perhaps they can help him in some way. If they cannot, and if the boy must be killed, then none of this will make any difference.”

They? Who was they?

Realization came over Hussein like the exhaustion and shock that had turned his muscles to jelly. He had tracked and found his infidels, all right. Except now he was at their mercy.

•   •   •

P
arson heard footsteps approaching the cellar. Now everyone was awake. Parson and Chartier stood with their pistols ready, and Geedi shone the penlight up at the closed door.

Was an al-Shabaab terrorist marching Nadif at gunpoint to the hiding place? Entirely possible. Parson thumbed back the hammer on his Beretta. He could have fired it easily enough with the hammer down, but by cocking the weapon, he placed it in a configuration that required a much shorter trigger pull. That translated to a more accurate shot. And he knew he might get only one, if that.

Two coughs sounded from above. That was the arranged signal, and Parson relaxed just a bit. But he took no chances, and he kept his weapon upraised.

He heard Nadif—or someone—pulling the tarp from over the door. The person seemed to work without urgency. Maybe this was just old Nadif by himself.

“Look before you shoot,” Parson whispered, “but be ready.”

“Absolument,”
Chartier whispered in the darkness.

The door hinges groaned with a rasp of rusted metal. Someone lifted the door and revealed the glittering cosmos above.

A shadow in the shape of a man blocked out the stars. The shadow carried no weapon and stood alone.

Geedi moved the penlight, and the beam showed the worried face of Nadif. The two Somalis spoke in their own language. Judging from the tone of Geedi's voice, he seemed not to believe what Nadif was telling him.

“What's going on?” Parson asked.

“They found an al-Shabaab guy passed out right in front of their house,” Geedi said. “He's shot in the foot.”

“Oh, hell,” Parson said. “Where is he now?”

“Inside. They tied him up.”

“Mon Dieu,”
Chartier said.

“What the fuck did they take him inside for?” Parson said. “Are they nuts?”

Geedi spoke in Somali again. The tone implied a pointed question. Nadif gave a long answer and shrugged.

“He is just a boy,” Geedi translated. “They could not bring themselves to kill him. But they didn't want him to be seen, either, and maybe cause more al-Shabaab to come here.”

“The guy who hit our plane with a grenade and tried to kill us was just a boy, too,” Parson said. “Maybe the same one.”

“Nadif says the child is in very bad shape. He wants to know if we can help him.”

Parson gaped at Geedi, his face visible in the edge of the penlight's beam. Geedi wore no expression. Parson glanced up at Nadif.

“He's fucking with us, right?” Parson said. “We're hiding from al-Shabaab, and he wants us to babysit one of their Cub Scouts?”

Parson let his question hang in the air. From the blackness around him, he heard Gold speak up.

“The boy is a wounded prisoner now,” Gold said. “If we have any ability to give him medical treatment, we're obligated.”

Once again, Parson thought, she's the voice of my better nature. Sometimes I wish my better nature would shut the hell up.

Parson could think of several reasons to disagree with her: The protections of the Geneva Conventions applied to lawful combatants, not terrorists. And this was between Nadif and the little murderous son of a bitch he'd taken in. Right now, Parson thought, we should just blow out of here and take our chances in the bush.

But Parson knew their chances would be pretty slim. Sooner or later his group would encounter terrorists again, and the next al-Shabaab fighter they ran into probably wouldn't be unconscious. Or a kid.

And all his reasons to disagree with Gold were technical, hair-splitting excuses. Yes, Parson was on leave. As far as the military was concerned, he was on
vacation
. Instead of coming to Somalia, Parson could have hopped a space-A flight to Spain and spent this time by the sea at Rota. He knew a beach bar where they served garlic shrimp, and the owner loved American jazz. Instead of running from al-Shabaab, Parson could be sitting under the cabana, feeling breezes off the Gulf of Cádiz. Sipping Rioja and listening to Dave Brubeck. Watching the women go by, some with bikini tops, some without.

But no. He had come to a war zone to court mayhem. And, on leave or not, he was still a senior officer of the United States Air Force.

Guess I better act like one, Parson thought. Even if I don't want to.

“Damn it,” he said. “Somebody grab the medical ruck.”

•   •   •

W
hen Hussein saw the
gaalos
come into the hut, he thought his life was over. The old couple, those
kafirs
, had betrayed him to Crusaders. They would all burn in hell for this. Hussein's eyes widened, and he struggled once more against the bonds that held him. Useless.

Just let them shoot me, he prayed. But if they torture me, let me resist like a man.

Through his gag, Hussein mumbled, “There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet.” He wanted his profession of faith to serve as his final words.

But the
gaalos
did not kill him. At first, they did not even touch him. They stood around him and talked in their harsh language. American words, he supposed. Their words reminded him of a knife against a whetstone, all sharp edges and hard corners. Yes, even their speech was unclean.

There were two white women, both with their heads shamelessly uncovered. They even wore their sleeves rolled up so that their arms were bare. What manner of harlotry was this? And why did the infidels bring women with them into a war zone? Could they not live without their whores for even a few days?

The group also included two white men, one a little older than the other. Hussein assumed the oldest was in charge. Both carried pistols. One of the weapons was an automatic like Hussein had seen many times. The other handgun looked strange, all silvery and old-fashioned looking, with a very wide muzzle. More than likely, the bullet that tore up his foot came from one of those guns. If not for the gag, Hussein would have spat at these Crusaders.

Neither of them pointed a weapon at Hussein. What were they waiting for? They talked among themselves and made no threatening moves.

The strangest member of the group was a young man who looked like he could have been Somali. The man was several years older than Hussein, though not as old as the al-Shabaab bosses like the Sheikh. He wore normal clothes—not the odd coveralls of the white men, but he spoke their ugly language.

Obviously this Somali man conspired with the
gaalos
. A
kafir
, perhaps, paid to join the forces of infidelity. Maybe someone who had even betrayed his God and become a Jew or a Christian. Surely he would burn in the hottest corner of hell.

The young man kneeled beside Hussein.

“My name is Geedi,” the man said in Somali. “You are hurt and very sick. We will not harm you. We are going to help you.”

Help me? Hussein wondered. How could this unbelieving, Crusader-loving enemy of God help me?

“Get away from me,” Hussein tried to say. He could not force the words through his gag, and the effort to speak made him more tired and weak.

Behind the infidel Somali who called himself Geedi, one of the white men opened a backpack. From inside the pack he took a clear plastic bag that contained some kind of liquid.

They're going to poison me, Hussein thought. Or give me some kind of potion to convert me to their false religion.

“Infidels,” Hussein tried to shout. “Help me, brothers.”

Calling for help was pointless. The gag smothered his words, and even without the gag he could have hardly spoken above a whisper.

The older white man took out a needle and attached it to some kind of tube. Then he attached the tube to the bag of poison.

“You are very dehydrated,” the one called Geedi said. “And your wound could get infected. We will give you the fluids you need. The needle will sting just a little.”

“Liar,” Hussein growled into his gag. What did
dehydrated
mean, anyway?

They could poison him, but they could not make him betray his religion. There is no god but God, Hussein recited in his mind, and Mohammed is his final prophet.

The older man came at him with the needle. Hussein jerked his arm away. The movement sent a jolt of pain from his foot that spread agony all through his body. The one called Geedi held down Hussein's arm.