THE OLD MAN WITH THE donkey laden with firewood hesitated at the gate of the mosque near the two guards, who were smoking cigarettes. He glanced at two young farmers who were quickly approaching.
“Move along, old man,” said one of the guards, who nodded at the donkey, “and take your wife with you.”
“I don’t understand a word you’re saying, but I take it that it wasn’t very nice,” the old man replied as he walked back to adjust the donkey’s burden by tugging on a rope.
“Huh?” replied the second guard, glancing at where he and his comrade had leaned their rifles against the wall. “What kind of language are you speaking? Where are you from?”
“I take it neither one of you ugly sons of bitches speaks Navajo,” the old man replied. “That’s okay, I was just going to suggest that you begin singing your death songs.” He grinned and gave the rope a final pull just as the two young farmers reached the donkey.
• • •
The odd thought, Daudov was speaking Navajo, passed through Lucy’s mind just a second before what sounded like a large angry insect thrummed over her at supersonic speeds, followed by the muted thud of that insect impacting a soft but solid object. The next sounds arrived together—a pained grunt and the noise of a loud rifle from the top of the hill outside the mosque.
Unlike in the movies, Raad was not blown off of his feet by the 7.62mm NATO Ball Special M118LR7 cartridge from the M24 bolt-action rifle fired by the sniper. However, the heavy bullet obliterated his heart before traveling down and out the small of his back. He grunted again, looked down at the deceptively small hole punctured just off-center in his bare chest, dropped his gun, took a step forward, and collapsed. For a split second, nobody did anything except watch Raad die before he hit the ground. Then everybody began to move at once.
But not in time to save one of the guards, who had his gun trained on the driver and passenger of the truck that had brought Nadya Malovo into camp. The top of his head disappeared in a spray of red blood from the sniper’s second shot.
Meanwhile the tall passenger, Ivgeny Karchovski, and the driver, Espy Jaxon, dropped to the ground and reached beneath the chassis for the semiautomatic handguns stashed there. They came up firing as the other guards tried to scatter, unsure whether to shoot back or worry about the sniper on the hill first. Two fell to Karchovski and Jaxon but the others got to cover and began returning fire, forcing the pair to retreat behind the truck.
Al-Sistani ran for a low wall, followed by two of his men. Jumping behind the wall, he cowered on the ground while shouting at his men to “attack the infidels!” One man stood and tried to rush the two men behind the truck but was cut down by a bullet that struck him in the stomach, causing him to double over, and a second to the head that finished him off.
Another of Al-Sistani’s men, who’d gone inside the mosque with Huff, emerged on the balcony of the minaret above the grounds and began firing down into the courtyard. He was unaware of the sniper lying in the tall grass on the hill and paid for his ignorance with a round that caught him in the torso, spinning him violently around so that he lost his balance and fell screaming to the ground below.
In the meantime, outside the mosque, about the same time the sniper’s first bullet was punching a hole in Raad, John Jojola, posing as an old man with a donkey, gave the rope a final tug while the two guards watched in confusion with cigarettes dangling from their open mouths. The firewood fell from the beast, revealing three AK-47 rifles that had been tied beneath the wood; the two young farmers, Daudov’s fighters, grabbed them, tossing one to John Jojola.
Further confused by the sound of a rifle and the ensuing pandemonium that suddenly broke out inside the courtyard, the guards were slow in reacting. Then, realizing the danger, they tried to get to their rifles but were just fast enough to die with the weapons in their hands. Jojola and the other two then went through the gate, firing as they ran.
• • •
Raad had hardly hit the ground when Daudov jumped up and then reached for Lucy. “Can you run?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, my legs . . . they’re not working,” Lucy replied. Kneeling had not done her any favors and she knew it would waste time to try. “I’ll crawl. But leave me, get Al-Sistani!”
Daudov looked at her hard and then nodded. He dove for the gun that had fallen from Raad’s hand and picked it up. Glancing back at her, he said, “Inshallah! Go with God!”
“Inshallah,” she replied. “You, too. Thank you.”
Lucy watched as the Chechen patriot began to race toward where Al-Sistani was cowering, behind a wall, while his men rallied around him. But bullets were digging into the dirt and skipping off walls around her, too, and she knew she had to move to reach safety. Painfully, she began to crawl toward the open door of the mosque, where a certain blue-robed saint stood in the shadows beckoning her.
Ned Blanchett slammed another cartridge home in the M24 and looked through the scope to watch as his fiancée crawled slowly toward the door of the mosque. He could see the puffs of dirt and plaster where bullets struck around her, and he was sure she would die. And yet, while it sometimes appeared as if she was moving through a swarm of bullets, none seemed to touch her. There was nothing more he could do for her but find another target and eliminate as much of the danger as he could.
Although he was terrified for her, it beat thinking he might never see her alive again. During the attack on the Zandaq compound in Chechnya, a mortar round had landed on the roof where he and a partner had set up their defensive position. The blast had thrown him off the roof, but as fate would have it, he landed in the branches of a tree and immediately lost consciousness.
Apparently Al-Sistani’s men had not looked up when they were combing the compound grounds executing the wounded and rounding up prisoners. All Blanchett knew was that at some point later, just as the sky was lightening up to the east, he woke up to see the face of Lom Daudov hovering above him.
All in all, he’d been lucky. He’d broken a couple of ribs and had a concussion but all of his comrades were dead, “except for Lucy and Huff,” Deshi Zakayev had explained. “But they are in the hands of the man who perpetrated the attack, Amir Al-Sistani.”
In the days that followed, Blanchett had been on the run with Daudov, constantly moving from one place to another—a farmhouse here, a city apartment there, and once an abandoned mine shaft that had been converted into a hidden bunker. As pressure from the Russians heated up, apparently with the complicity of the U.S. government, there’d been grumbling among Daudov’s men that Blanchett should be used as a pawn in negotiations, perhaps to exchange for separatist prisoners. But Daudov, in consultation with Zakayev, had refused.
He had also refused Blanchett’s pleading to be allowed to try to rescue his fiancée. “You wouldn’t make it ten miles,” Daudov said. “Even if we suspect that Al-Sistani is in Dagestan with the hostages, we do not know where; and going to his camp would be like stepping on a beehive.”
“I have to try,” Blanchett begged, and looked knowingly at Zakayev. “Please, you would do the same.”
Daudov followed his glance to the young woman. “You’re not helping anyone if your plan has no possible ending but failure. But I will think on it,” he said.
However, before Daudov reached a decision, Jaxon showed up with Karchovski, Jojola, two former U.S.-Special-Forces-turned-agents, and satellite imagery of a mosque and its surrounding compound near the city of Kasplysk in Dagestan. The reunion was short but emphatic.
They’d also brought a “surprise guest,” Nadya Malovo. Daudov’s eyes glittered with anger when he was introduced to the woman. “You’ve caused my people a lot of pain and suffering,” he said. “Women, children, old men . . . you had no remorse for who would die in your evil plots.”
Malovo said nothing. And if she was seen swallowing hard and a tinge of moisture showed in her eyes, it was thought to be fear and nothing else.
Jaxon had been right about the value Daudov would place on Malovo. “She will confess her crimes, and then the world will know the truth about Russian treachery and lies,” he said. “The world will have to listen and act. We will have Chechnya for Chechens!”
Daudov was also a man of honor. He could have seized Malovo and left the American team to fend for themselves. But instead he agreed to help rescue Lucy and Huff.
“We couldn’t bring a large team and overwhelm them with numbers,” Jaxon explained when Blanchett asked where the “rest of the troops” were. “Dagestan is a member of the Russian Federation, and they’re not going to like us ‘invading’ one of their states. So we have to get in and out before the Russians get involved, then let the diplomats and politicians blow hot air after they’re home safe.”
“Why not tell the Russians where they are and have them rescue the hostages?” Blanchett asked. “They have pros at this sort of thing.”
Jaxon and Jojola had looked at each other before the team leader replied, “Let’s just say we want the hostages to survive being rescued. We’re not at all confident that would happen if the Russians go in.” He’d explained briefly what was going on back in the States.
“Goddamned politicians,” Blanchett exclaimed. “They’re the real terrorists, or are at least aiding and abetting the enemy. I’d like to get them in my sights.”
“I understand,” Jaxon said. “But let’s figure out how to save Lucy and Mr. Huff and get Al-Sistani in your sights first.”
The problem was Al-Sistani’s beehive. “According to the satellite imagery and our best guess, he’s got anywhere from a dozen to two dozen men on the grounds at any one time,” Jaxon said. “So charging the front gate is not a viable option.”
“We need someone inside,” Daudov agreed. “And then must rely on surprise and speed.” The Chechen guerilla leader thought about it for a moment and then said he had a plan. “I will send one of my advisers, Bula Umarov, to tell him that I want to negotiate a truce . . . that I will be willing to put myself and my Hands of God brigade at his command. He’ll think that the Russians have finally forced me to join him.”
“What if he decides to kill you,” Jaxon replied. “You’re his main rival.”
Daudov shrugged. “He might,” he said. “In fact, given time, I am sure of it. But it would at least get me in the compound.”
“But you’re one man,” Blanchett said.
“Haven’t you heard, I am the Lion of Chechnya,” Daudov said with a laugh.
“I think you can sweeten the pot and, perhaps, even the odds a little more,” Karchovski said.
“How is that?” Daudov asked as they all looked at the tall Russian.
“There is someone whom Al-Sistani would consider an even greater prize than you. Ajmaani. But for a different reason than yours,” Karchovski explained. “You want to use her to prove the duplicity of my fellow countrymen and win freedom for your country. But Al-Sistani will want her to help him reach a man named Andrew Kane; a man who can access billions of dollars if he falls into his hands, which would go a long way toward funding jihad against the West.”
“So I sweeten the pot by taking Ajmaani with me?” Daudov said with a smile.
“And, of course, two men necessary to escort such a dangerous prisoner,” Karchovski said, pointing to himself and Jaxon. He then outlined how Jojola and Daudov’s men would approach the mosque.
“I’m going into the compound, too,” Blanchett demanded.
“You’re more valuable performing your speciality,” Karchovski replied. “Besides, this will be a complex operation; we need somebody who can see when everyone is in place and choose the moment to set the ball in motion.” He pointed to a hill outside of the mosque on the satellite photograph. “This is where you’ll set up. Then we will wait for your signal.”
“What will that be?” Blanchett asked.
“The death of the first man you shoot,” Karchovski replied.
“How will I know who to shoot first and when?”
“That, my young cowboy,” Karchovski said, clapping him on the shoulder, “will be up to you and God.”
After they’d agreed on the basics of the plan, Daudov had cautioned them, “I am not going to tell Bula Umarov our plan. Only that I wish to meet with Al-Sistani and offer my loyalty. I am not going to tell him about Ajmaani, or our rescue plan.”
“Why not?” Jaxon asked.
Daudov glanced at Zakayev. “We have reason to believe that he is a traitor working for Al-Sistani, and perhaps the Russians, too.”
“Then why trust him with even that part of the plan?” Jojola asked.
“Because Al-Sistani trusts him and would expect him to ferret out any secrets,” Daudov said. “That’s how Al-Sistani learned about David Huff’s mission, as well as the mission of your people. It’s also how he knew that I was supposed to be at the compound that night. Only a delay saved me from being there.”
“What about Ajmaani . . . Malovo? What are we going to tell her?” Blanchett asked.
Karchovski thought about it for a moment. “It is difficult to pull wool over eyes of someone like her who is suspicious of all motives,” he said. “But Jaxon can tell her that Daudov has agreed to trade her with Al-Sistani for the hostages in exchange for arms from the U.S. She may or may not see through it. I will also tell her that our young sniper friend here will keep her in his sights every step of the way and if she tries to escape, or even attempts to move in the direction of cover, he will shoot her before she can take a step.”
• • •
Blanchett intended to keep Nadya Malovo in the crosshairs of his scope but decided that Al-Sistani would be his first target when everyone was in place. However, first Al-Sistani had moved so that the shot was blocked by the truck, then Daudov had stepped behind Lucy with a knife at her throat while Raad stood directly behind them.
Blanchett chose a new target. Praying that Daudov would get himself and Lucy out of the line of fire, his finger started to gently press the trigger. Lucy threw herself to the ground and Daudov landed on top of her. At that moment he shot and knew that his target, Al-Sistani’s executioner, was as good as dead. He’d quickly worked the bolt, jammed another cartridge home, and sighted on what he’d already determined was the second target: the guard with his rifle pointed at Karchovski and Jaxon.
Blanchett then looked for Malovo, but she was nowhere to be seen in the chaos that erupted. He switched to Al-Sistani, but the terrorist dove over the wall as the 7.62 bullet took out a chunk of plaster where he’d been a moment before. A man had appeared on the minaret and died from the bullet intended for the other two. He then looked for Lucy and saw her crawling through the hail of gunfire as Daudov ran toward where Al-Sistani was cowering.
Lucy was on her own. All he could do was keep shooting.
• • •
Jaxon and Jojola saw Daudov racing toward Al-Sistani at about the same time. They began pouring bullets toward the position even as their comrades and Blanchett on the hill continued to engage the others. One of Jojola’s accomplices was down and the other wounded, and a glance from Jaxon to Karchovski revealed that the Russian had been hit, though he continued to shoot and it was difficult to tell how badly he was hurt.
Heedless of the bullets that whizzed past him or struck the ground in front of and behind him, Daudov ran toward his archenemy, shooting with the handgun and brandishing Raad’s knife in his other hand. One of Al-Sistani’s bodyguards stood up and the two men fired simultaneously. A bullet grazed Daudov’s cheek, another bullet caught the bodyguard in the throat. The wound threw Daudov off for a moment, and the second bodyguard might have killed him, but the big gun on the hill boomed and the man never got his shot off.
Then Daudov was over the wall where Al-Sistani crouched. The terrorist whimpered when he saw who was standing above him with a knife.
“I give up,” Al-Sistani screamed. “I invoke Allah’s mercy. You cannot kill an unarmed prisoner!”
With a snarl, Daudov reached down and yanked Al-Sistani to his feet. “I should not, you’re right,” he said, at which his prisoner relaxed. “But I will have to ask Allah’s forgiveness.” With that, the Chechen patriot plunged the blade deep into Al-Sistani, driving beneath his rib cage for the heart.
Al-Sistani squealed and wiggled like a stuck pig as his hands clutched at his executioner. His eyes widened in terror and blood gouted from his mouth, then he went limp and Daudov let him fall to the ground.
Only then did Daudov seem to realize that all the shooting had stopped. He looked around. None of Al-Sistani’s men were left; they’d all fought to the death. Only the men from America and one of his own were still standing; Karchovski appeared to have been shot in the midsection and was being tended to by Jojola.
Jaxon ran up to him. “Where’s Lucy?”
Daudov turned toward the mosque door. “Inside, I think.”
• • •
Lucy had reached the shadows just inside the door of the mosque when the apparition of St. Teresa vaporized and was replaced by the very real personage of Nadya Malovo. The assassin was pointing a gun at her. “Get up.”
Slowly, painfully, Lucy stood and leaned against a wall. “What are you going to do if I can’t?” she said.
“I need a hostage,” Malovo said. “In fact, I need two.” She tossed a staff used for a Muslim banner at Lucy. “Use this, or I will kill you instead.”
Hardly waiting for Lucy, though she looked back from time to time and kept the gun on her, Malovo moved toward the back of the mosque. Suddenly, she stopped next to a door. Outside, the shooting seemed to be growing less; inside, they could hear voices.
“Go out and help Al-Sistani,” a voice Lucy recognized as Bula Umarov’s said.
“I refuse,” a man answered. “I am going to escape out the back while there is still time.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Umarov said. Then there was the sound of a shot, a man cried out, and something heavy hit the floor.
Malovo stepped through the door, which led to a small courtyard in the back of the mosque. The man everyone else knew as Bula Umarov stood with his back to her, his gun still trained on a jihadi lying on the ground. A frightened Deputy Chief of Mission David Huff stood to one side.
“Drop your weapon, Sergei,” Malovo commanded.
The small pockmarked man straightened as if he’d been shocked and dropped his gun. He turned slowly, then smiled. “My old comrade from my KGB days, Nadya Malovo. I’m glad you made it this far.”
“Sergei Nikitin,” Malovo replied. “Time has not improved your looks or your memory. We both worked in the KGB, but you were no comrade of mine.”
Nikitin shrugged. “Be that as it may, now I work for the Russian Federation secret police and I suggest we leave.”
“Why?” Malovo asked.
He started to reach for his pocket, then hesitated when she pointed the gun. “May I show you something?”
“Go ahead.”
The spy slowly reached in and pulled out a cell phone. “All I have to do is make a call and my bosses—your former bosses—will have a helicopter pick us up at a prearranged meeting place on the beach,” he said. “I’m sure they would love to see you again. But we need to hurry.”
“What’s the rush?”
Umarov-Nikitin laughed. “You mean other than that, whichever side wins the battle outside, things might not go well for either of us?” he said. “Well, there’s always the small transmitter I placed on the truck you rode into the compound.”
“Transmitter? What kind of transmitter?” Malovo demanded.
Nikitin pointed to the sky and smiled. “A radar tracking device, courtesy of our new Russo-American alliance,” he said. “I received it yesterday and was supposed to arm it when you and Daudov and the hostages were together with Al-Sistani. An American drone will be here any minute, and I suggest we be somewhere else. But first we need to shoot the hostages.”
Malovo frowned. “Why?”
“Orders from the Kremlin,” Nikitin said with a shrug. “Apparently the Americans don’t want them back.”
Malovo thought about what he said for a moment, then pointed the gun at Lucy. “Call the helicopter,” she said.
Nikitin smiled and pressed a button on the telephone. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said. “And I’m bringing an extra passenger.”
The spy hung up and pointed to the door leading out of the courtyard. “Shoot them and let’s go.”
“Sorry, there’s been a change of plans,” Malovo said, turning to point the gun at Nikitin.
“What? No!” Nikitin shouted, but his next words died in his mouth as the bullet smashed into his brain.
“Go,” Malovo said to Lucy. “Take him with you.”
“I don’t understand,” Lucy replied.
“What’s not to understand? An American drone has been summoned. It will home in on the radar transmitter and reduce this place to rubble. Now run. Tell the others and save yourselves!”
“Come with us,” Lucy said. “I’ll tell everyone what you did. You can make a new life.”
Malovo smiled. “For such a smart girl, you’re really not very bright, are you,” she said. A wistful look crossed her face. “There will be no new life for me. And if ever we meet again, or I run across that bastard of a father of yours, do not expect me to be merciful. NOW RUN!”
Huff walked up to Lucy and put his arm around her shoulder. “Thank you,” he said to Malovo.
The beautiful assassin sneered. “Today I did not feel like killing you, but don’t press your luck,” she said, then considered something. “But I’ll be watching you. Do the right thing when you get back to the U.S. or someday you may wake up and find me standing in the shadows of your bedroom.”
With that Malovo turned and bolted for the back gate. At the same time, Lucy and Huff hobbled to the front of the mosque, where they were met at the door by Daudov and Jaxon. “We have to leave,” Lucy shouted. “A drone is coming to kill everyone here.”
“What about Malovo?” Jaxon yelled.
“No time to explain. RUN!”
The three men and Lucy ran from the mosque, yelling for the others to pile into a black SUV—apparently Al-Sistani’s ride. With Jaxon behind the wheel, the vehicle spun its tires and raced for the front gate.
As he lay dying next to the wall where he’d taken refuge, Al-Sistani was the first to be aware of the Predator. He heard the buzzing of its small motors high up in the overcast sky. He lifted a finger and traced its circular path above.
Those in the SUV had only made it halfway up the hill when they heard the whoosh of the first Hellfire rocket. Then a second, third, and fourth. They stopped and looked back as the four explosions rocked the ground, and the mosque disappeared in a cloud of smoke, dust, and flame.
As the others were watching the destruction below, Lucy, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, turned her head to look up the hill. She recognized the sound of the sniper’s gun and now the only thing she wanted in the world was to see the man who carried it.
As if by magic, Ned Blanchett rose from the tall, golden grasses that had concealed him and began to walk toward the car. Lucy was out in an instant, willing her legs to move toward him. He began to run and reached her just as she collapsed, picking her up in his arms and looking lovingly down into her eyes.
Lucy reached up and touched his face. “Why, hello there, Ned,” she said. “What took you so long?”