90

Again, the colonel came over the radio.

He insisted they had to leave the compound now or die. The convoy of jihadists was almost at the base of the mountain. But Marcus did not reply.

Ruzami’s blood was spraying everywhere. But Marcus was not done. He grabbed the man by the hair and dragged him over to the window.

“Talk,” Marcus demanded. “Tell me what I want to know.”

“No,” the man shouted back as he gasped for air. “Never. NEVER!”

“Talk or your sons will die. All three of them.”

For a split second, this seemed to stop Ruzami in his tracks.

“That’s right,” Marcus screamed. “We have them—all of them. Jibril. Ali. And Mansour. And if you don’t talk, they all die. Right now.”

“You’re lying,” Ruzami cried.

“We’re going to kill them unless you tell me where Abu Nakba is and what he’s planning.”

“You’re lying. You’re lying. My sons are—”

Again the colonel came over the radio. The convoy was almost there. They had to move. But no sooner had he said the words than an explosion shook the entire house. Then a second. A third. And a fourth.

Everyone but Ruzami turned and looked out the windows. They were expecting to see the barn and the offices obliterated by Houthi mortars or artillery shells. But before anyone could speak, the voice of Martha Dell came back over the radio. It was not the Houthis doing the shooting. Two of the CIA’s Predator drones had just arrived on scene and fired their Hellfire missiles, taking out the convoy of approaching jihadists. And the strikes had been precise, she reported. All the vehicles had been destroyed and there were no survivors.

“Now finish this,” Dell ordered Marcus, knowing exactly what he was up to.

So Marcus turned back to Ruzami. He could see the man was beginning to crack. He glanced back and found Callaghan helping Noah finish bagging up the computers and phones. He told them both to take everything downstairs. He could take it from there. When he heard them descending the stairs, Marcus again stomped on Ruzami’s leg. The man cried out and gasped for air.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said, speaking softly now. He pressed his pistol against the man’s temple. “This is it. Your last chance. I’m going to count to three one more time. And you’re going to talk, or your sons are going to die.”

“No—you can’t,” the man screamed.

“One.”

“Not my sons.”

“Two.”

“Have mercy—please.”

“Three.”

The man was howling in pain. Tears streamed down his face. He was shaking his head and trying to curl up into a fetal position. But Marcus refused to let him. He looked out the window and nodded to Geoff Stone. Then he grabbed Ruzami’s hair, yanked him up, and forced him to look out the window.

Chained to the flagpole were the three bodies that he and Geoff had just dragged there. Surrounding them were scraps of furniture Geoff had brought out of the house. He had doused all of them in gasoline and now lit a cigarette, took a drag, and tossed it onto the kindling. The whole thing burst into flames.

For several seconds, Ruzami stared in disbelief. But then the commander began laughing through his pain.

“Liar,” he screamed. “You’re a filthy liar. Those aren’t my sons. My sons are twelve thousand kilometers away. Ready to execute the plan. And there is nothing—nothing—you can do to stop them.”

Suddenly, in a burst of rage-filled adrenaline, Ruzami drove his handcuffed fists into Marcus’s groin. The force and the wrenching pain instantly dropped Marcus to his knees. His gun dropped from his hands and went skittering across the floor. Blindsided, Marcus tried to stand but could not get up. Dropping to his side, he tried to speak but could not get out the words. The wind had been knocked out of him. He was struggling to breathe. Struggling to think clearly. But in a blur of color and movement, Marcus now saw the man’s hands move toward the dagger tucked into Marcus’s belt. He saw Ruzami raise the dagger and saw, too, the vengeance in his eyes.

Marcus instinctively raised his hands to block the coming strike. Yet in that instant, he knew he had neither the strength nor the breath to stop what was coming. For a split second, he had foolishly—stupidly—let down his guard. Why had he imagined even for a mere moment that he could force a man such as this to talk, much less trick him into doing so? And now this madman was going to take his life.

Just then, however, gunshots exploded behind him.

Marcus saw Ruzami’s head and chest explode. The force of the bullets drove the man backward. The dagger fell from his hands. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped to the floor.

As startled as he was relieved, Marcus just stared at Ruzami for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he turned his head, expecting to see smoke curling out of Callaghan’s Kalashnikov. But it was Jenny holding the smoking weapon.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing Marcus’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “We need to go.”