The Taste of Fear (26 page)

The door suddenly opened. Mustache and Beard poked the barrels of their automatic weapons into the room. “You,” Mustache said to Sal. “You come.”

“No!” Scarlett cried, thinking of Joanna.

Sal slipped the tracking device in his pocket. “It’s okay. They likely only want to question me about Ben—Fitzgerald.”

Sal left with the gunmen. Scarlett waited in agony to hear another gunshot. It never came.

“Thunder,” she said urgently. “You were right. We need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

He nodded, but his eyes were closed, his chin resting on his chest, and she didn’t know if he had heard her or not. How would he make it? He didn’t look like he could stand. Regardless, she wasn’t leaving him behind. No way. Either everyone got out or no one did.
All for one and one for all,
she thought, feeling like a damned Musketeer, and she didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.

“When Sal comes back,” she went on, “we’ll wait until dark. Maybe Cree—the gunman won’t be outside tonight. Or if he is, we’ll wait until he falls asleep. Then we’ll make a break for it. Okay?”

The door opened again. This time Creep stood at the threshold. He looked directly at her and said, “You, your turn.”

She gave Thunder’s hand an affectionate squeeze, then glanced over at Miranda. The girl was sitting on a chair, staring at the ground. She hadn’t moved or said a word since Joanna was shot. “Sit tight, Miranda,” she said, then followed Creep outside.

It was an absurdly bright and sunny day, the kind of day you went for a picnic in the park or a stroll along the beach. Not one where you had some lunatic sticking his gun in your back and marching you toward an uncertain future. Before they reached the church—which Scarlett assumed the terrorists were using as a makeshift HQ given the limited alternatives—Creep ordered her to turn down an overgrown path that ran the length of one of the smaller buildings. She continued to the end, then stopped. There was nothing ahead of her except grass and, beyond that, the base of a hill prickled with trees.

“Move,” Creep said. “Straight.”

“Where to?”

“You go. Okay? Go.”

Scarlett continued forward. With each step the sinking sensation in her gut deepened. This wasn’t right. Why was he taking her to the forest, away from everyone else—?

She came to an abrupt halt, turned, and looked Creep in the eyes. They were swimming with lust. Just like on the riverboat. Just like in the forest.

Scarlett went cold all over.

Seeing she understood his intentions, Creep’s single eyebrow dipped in the middle, forming the letter M. Scarlett made to run, but he grabbed her hair and yanked her backward. He clamped a hand over her mouth and tugged her body against his. He pulled up her dress. His fingers dug beneath the elastic waistband of her panties, tearing them away. To her disgust, she felt he was already aroused.

She twisted wildly but couldn’t shake free. She bit into the hand over her mouth with all the ferocity she could muster. She tasted a gush of hot blood and a chunk of flesh. Creep howled in pain. His grip slackened. She managed to push away, but before she could make it two steps, he had her again, spinning her around and slapping her so hard she fell to her back.

Then he was on her.

Scarlett screamed.

He slapped her a second time. When she blinked away the stars, her dress was up around her waist; his pants were down around his knees. She thrashed from side to side, but he was too heavy. She couldn’t buck him off her. He flicked aside her necklaces, yanked at the neckline of her dress. Buttons popped. Desperate, she grabbed the three-inch lion claw that Cooper had given her and raked it across his face, drawing a long gash down his left cheek. She swung it again, this time jabbing it into his forehead and tugging down, through his eye.

Clear fluid erupted, like juice squeezed from a grape. Roaring now, Creep rolled off her, allowing her to crab-crawl away. He looked up at her, one hand cupped under the dead eye in a losing effort to catch the pooling, overflowing blood. His seeing eye radiated pure hatred.

Scarlett shot to her feet and ran, ran as fast as she could toward the forest, propelled by sheer terror. Above her labored breathing she could hear Creep giving chase right behind her. The forest drew closer, thick and impenetrable. Her screaming mind told her it would stop her dead in her tracks, but she didn’t know where else to go.
If he catches you he’s going to rape and kill you—rape and kill you after he cuts out your eyes to get even—

She spotted a gaping crevice in the hill. It was about the size of a door and framed by slabs of stone and timber and so overgrown with vegetation she hadn’t seen it from farther away.

A mine entrance?

She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting away.

She made a beeline toward it.

The waist-high grass flapped past her legs. The ground was hard and uneven, and she kept expecting herself to trip and fall. She never did. If she did, she would die. Then, before she knew it, she was rushing straight into the mouth of the mine, raising her arms for protection against the vines and branches that snapped past her face. Darkness engulfed her. She charged deeper, one hand surfing the stone wall. She was running too fast, too reckless. She was going to hit something. Still, she barely slowed.

She could hear Creep right on her heels. All he had to do was reach out and—

The ground lurched. Scarlett stumbled and smacked wooden boards, which swung wildly beneath her weight. Creep tripped over her, going down as well. She scrambled on all fours past him. One of her arms plunged between the planks into nothingness.

How far up was she? What was below?

Just as she freed her arm, Creep reached her, his hands tearing at her clothes, his body writhing against hers, his putrid breath wafting over her.

Suddenly her dress was up around her waist again. The boards scraped and chafed her bare legs and rear. She felt
it
on top of her. Small. Hard. Poking. She was revolted.

He was trying to pry her legs apart. She squeezed them more tightly together.

Suddenly there was a sharp, whip-like crack. Another snap as something gave.

Scarlett felt herself falling.

Fitzgerald finally looked at Sal. His eyes were daggers.

Suddenly a woman screamed. It was distant and shrill. A man cried out in what sounded like excruciating pain moments later.

Jahja and the two gunmen exchanged a few quick words in Arabic. Jahja and the goon with the beard ran outside while the one with the mustache went to the church entrance but didn’t leave. Sal remained where he was, wondering what the hell was happening. His helplessness, his inability to act, enraged him.

“You’re a fecking pillock,” Fitzgerald said.

Sal looked at him. “That’s the best you got?”

“Do you want to live?”

“You’re asking me that?” Sal said, amazed. “You’re about to be executed, my friend.”

“And you soon after.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

But in truth Sal was concerned. He wasn’t dealing with rational people. They’d shot Joanna in cold blood, and they’d said nothing so far about ransom negotiations. So what if he’d been wrong all along? What if they didn’t want money? If that was true, then the Irishman was right. He was living on borrowed time.

“I can help get you out of this,” Fitzgerald told him. “First give me your word you’ll release me afterward.”

“Fine.” Sal shrugged. “You have it. My word.”

“Is it worth anything?”

“It’s worth your life. Do you have any other choice?”

Fitzgerald straightened in the chair and pulled his legs in, grimacing with the effort. “I’m going to make a distraction,” he explained. “When the wanker by the door comes to investigate, you grab the two-by-four and take him out.”

“That’s it?”

“What the feck else do you want? A sodding airstrike? Take him out. Take his weapon. Get rid of the other two when they return. Do you have a better idea?”

Sal ran the plan through his head. It could work.

“Time’s running out,” Fitzgerald said. “Make an executive decision.”

Sal let the jib pass. “Fine.”

“Step back, closer to the two-by-four.”

Sal stepped back.

Fitzgerald rolled his eyes up in his head and started convulsing.

“Hey!” Sal shouted. “Help him!”

The gunman returned from the entrance, cautious, likely expecting a trick. The AK-47 was gripped tightly in both hands. Sal took another step back, giving him room, while positioning himself closer to the two-by-four. The gunman didn’t try to help Fitzgerald. He just stood there, watching him convulse. The distraction wasn’t going to work, Sal thought in frustration. There would be no chance to grab the piece of wood. He glanced at the entrance. The other two would be back soon. He had to do something—

Fitzgerald’s legs shot out and locked around the gunman’s left knee. Almost simultaneously he jerked his body sideways, sending himself and the chair and the gunmen all crashing to the floor. The gunman’s cocked elbows struck the stone, hard, causing him to release the assault rifle, which clattered harmlessly away.

Sal took two quick steps and snatched up the two-by-four. He swung it with all his strength at the back of the gunman’s head. It struck with a satisfying crack, like a home run. The man’s skull caved in and he went limp.

“Quickly now. Move the body,” Fitzgerald barked from his position on his side. “They can see it from the entrance. Take his rifle and get to one side of the door, out of sight, out of their line of fire. As soon as they enter, spray them from behind. They won’t be expecting it.”

Sal didn’t like taking orders, but what the Irishman said made sense. He dragged the corpse between two front rows of pews and picked up the assault rifle.

“Is it on semi- or full-automatic?” Fitzgerald asked.

“Hell if I know.”

“See the selector? If it’s in the lowest position, it’s on single fire.”

Sal moved it up. “It’s in the middle now.”

“Good. Pull back and release the charging handle.”

Sal followed the instructions, then went to the narthex, which was nothing more than a barren stone rectangle. He pressed himself into the corner adjacent to the tall doors as he heard voices approaching, chattering urgently in Arabic.

When the two terrorists stepped into view, Sal squeezed the trigger. The roar of gunfire was deafening in the small enclosure, punctuated by the fragile sound of expended casings striking the stone floor. The terrorist with the beard dropped. His body acted as a shield, protecting Jahja, who immediately leapt back through the church doors.

Sal charged after him, itching to let loose another burst of bullets. As soon as he stepped outside, however, two gunshots boomed. He pivoted back inside. “Christ!” he swore, peering out the doors right as Jahja ducked into the building-cum-prison.

Go after him or wait?

Before Sal could answer that question, Jahja burst back outside, holding Miranda against his chest, the pistol to her head. “Don’t shoot!” he shouted. “I’ll kill her!”

Sal aimed the rifle. They were 250 feet away.

Jahja backed up, keeping Miranda between himself and the church.

He was going to make a break for it.

Sal considered letting Jahja go but quickly changed his mind. He might regroup with the remaining gunman, wherever he was, making it two against one. Or he might double back to the riverboat and return with the two gunmen they had left behind. Which left only one option.

Sal peered through the iron sight, said a silent apology to the embassy girl, and squeezed the trigger. Bullets chewed the ground ten feet in front of Miranda and Jahja.

He aimed higher, fired again.

Miranda’s body jerked and flapped like a shirt caught in a strong wind. Jahja’s face stretched wide in surprise. He shoved aside the dead girl, let off two shots, and ran. But a bullet must have hit him or gone through Miranda and into him, because after a few steps he dropped the pistol and sank to his knees. He started to crawl.