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Aksum, Ethiopia

 

Tesfay pushed his newly acquired wheels as hard as he dared. His truck, now shot up, he knew. He knew its limitations, its capabilities, its quirks. This piece of junk pickup truck? He knew nothing beyond what it cost him to rent from a local for the day.

Too much.

But he had been desperate, with little time, and was lucky to have found anything.

He was heading for the last known position of Ganno, Control having sent him the coordinates only minutes ago. He was certain Ganno wasn’t with the professors, as Control reported it was a house, not a church, that he had been seen entering. But Ganno’s men would know where the professors were, and would likely lead him right to them.

He noticed his wounded arm getting tired and cursed as he let go of the wheel slightly, the vehicle heading to the right, the wheels far out of alignment.

This is going to be a shit drive.

He punched the steering wheel, wondering how he had been made. Control had confirmed the vehicle that had shot him up had left with Ganno, so it was his people that had made him. The only thing he could think of was that he had been spotted while he waited, then when he pulled out after Ganno, his men took action.

It could have been worse.

Normally they would have killed him, and the fact they hadn’t, perhaps said something about the type of men they were dealing with. Perhaps these weren’t insane murderers like he was used to dealing with, but instead, good men doing something they might find distasteful, though had no choice in.

Like himself. He had risked his life to save that little girl, now reunited with a thankful mother. Yet he wouldn’t hesitate to kill a target if ordered to do so, as long as he was certain that target was bad.

He had to have faith in his handlers.

He hit a rut in the road and battled to regain control before skidding to a near halt, his speed less than half of what he’d like. He checked his watch and cursed. He had fifteen minutes to get into position. That might not be a problem in Texas, but here, where random roadblocks of military or armed gangs could appear with no warning, it was an entirely different thing.

Not to mention the road conditions.

He cleared a rise and cursed, jamming on his brakes. A roadblock, as feared, lay ahead. He grabbed the camera and adjusted its telephoto lens, peering at the barricade, and more importantly, who was manning it.

And cursed again, a group of men climbing into a vehicle, obviously with plans to confront him should he turn around.

He activated his comm. “Control, Whiskey-Alpha-Four here, come in, over.”

“This is Control, go ahead, over.”

“Umm, can you give me a hand here? I’ve confirmed they’re not government. It’s a local gang, over.”

“Understood. Stand by.”

Tesfay watched as the vehicle pulled away, loaded with half a dozen armed men. He put his truck in reverse, just in case.

Then smiled as two missiles streaked past him, hammering the illegal roadblock, two massive fireballs destroying everything and everyone in front of him.

Clearing his path.

“Thanks, Control, I owe you one.”

“Any time, Whiskey-Alpha-Four.”