Namir kicked his scout’s body savagely.
He and the rest of his men had arrived at the site forty-five minutes after they tracked his phone. They had discovered the other bodies, too. Scattered in the forest. A couple of them bent and broken. Most of them shot.
His plan had worked. To an extent. Stringing his men out with jammers and trackers had brought them into contact with the stranger.
But the result angered him.
‘Who is this man?’ he roared into the forest.
Not one of his men dared to reply.
He paced as his men grouped loosely around him, some of them looking down at their trackers.
The sight angered him.
‘That didn’t help,’ he said, grabbing one device, flinging it to the ground, and stomping on it.
‘Sayidi, he is just one man,’ Osman, one of his killers, said softly.
‘Not Arabic. Only English,’ Namir screamed, showering the man in spittle.
‘And how do you know he is just one man? That girl might not even be with him.’
He snatched a water canteen from one of his men and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘We need to think like him,’ he said, calmer. ‘This man is a fox. We need to be a wolf.’
‘He will go to Erilyn,’ he said, after several moments of thinking. ‘That’s the largest town near this godforsaken place. It has police. Her grandfather—he lives there.’ He snapped his fingers, remembering the background research on Kenton Ashland.
‘You know the route Khalid took?’ He glared at Osman.
Khalid was the dead scout.
‘Yes, sayidi ... yes,’ his man stammered. ‘It is on his tracker.’
‘We will backtrack that route. His last movement. This man is cunning. It is possible he killed Khalid somewhere else and dumped his body here. The place of the kill—it is from there he and the girl will go to Erilyn.’
‘Move!’ he yelled at his men when they remained motionless.
They scrambled to attention and started filing in the direction Osman pointed.
Namir brought up the rear, glowering. He didn’t bother to hide Khalid’s body. None of his dead killers were buried.
That’s what they get. For being killed by one man.
Doubts began to rise in him, however. Can one man kill ten of my men? My people are killers. Trained as terrorists. They are not ordinary men. Only someone exceptional could kill them.
The hut had held only one person’s possessions, however. One sleeping bag. The stranger’s computers had erased themselves when he had tried to use them. His sat phone had done the same.
No, it’s just one man. And the girl is with him. We found her hair.
He’s a soldier. On vacation. Some special unit. No one else will have that kind of equipment, he thought, recollecting the spare batteries, the wicked-looking blade, and the armored vest left behind in the hut.
It didn’t matter. The man’s luck would not last.
He still had ten cold-blooded murderers, some of the most wanted men, with him.
They would find their targets.
And then I will rape her in front of him. Let my men have their fun, too.
Only then will I kill him.
Slowly.