SOUTHERN PAKISTAN
It could have been the High Plains desert of Colorado, or Death Valley in California, or the mountains of Peru.
It just happened to be Pakistan, near Hyderabad.
Because without the right equipment, without the right clothes, and with an entire terrorist organization plus a nation’s intelligence service hunting you … it almost didn’t matter where you were.
The truck had dropped them off by a small village at the foot of the mountains, where Maryam had managed to get warmer clothes, some food and drink, plus a couple of old bicycles to head into the mountain range—all in exchange for Gorman’s Rolex.
Parting with the watch had been difficult, but as he handed it over to the village elder, a man in his eighties who smiled a smile of a handful of brown teeth, Jeannie’s face filled his mind.
And I’d always love you, Darling. But it’s time for you to move on.
And Gorman did, walking away with the hope that the last thing connecting him to his former life would buy them a chance at a new life.
A day later they were climbing past eleven thousand feet—“climbing” meaning trying to ride bikes up twenty-degree inclines on trails goats would have trouble with. Plus they had no lights, water limited to one bottle, and other than that only some smelly bread and even smellier cheese.
While his lungs sucked air like a vacuum cleaner, Gorman regretted that he did not do more hill training. Maryam seemed in far better shape, or perhaps she was just more resolute, aware of her fate if captured.
Stopping to take a break, they were alerted to the sound of vehicles coming toward their resting spot. They had decided that heading north and then moving east was crude but effective and also practical, as neither had a map or technical device to help them. What they both had was their training, and both knew how to read the sky at night. Plus they were keenly aware that they had a better chance of survival by only moving at night.
Gorman thought there was an outside chance that some form of overhead drone, satellite, or aircraft might see them. However, without the ability to electronically talk to anyone, they were going to have to improvise … and be luckier than they had ever been in their lives.
Their plan was simple: get a truck or car to stop, convince the driver or take over the vehicle, and drive like hell to the border. They walked their bikes now, as at this altitude and as tired as they were, it was all they could do.
Maryam was first to crest the ridge, placing her bike in the middle of the road, and Gorman was next, setting his down forty feet away from Maryam.
The truck driver had been on the road for days. He almost did not see the first bike, swerved left toward the mountain from which the road was cut, saw the second bike, and swerved right while braking.
Coming to a stop, he was surprised to see his door swing open and a large man grab him rather harshly.