enemies of the state (29 page)

Behind the presidential motorcade, General Zabanya rode in his own vehicle.

“Two kilometers down,” Daniels said from the front seat, calling out the distance of the route. “One kilometer to Bulbula River and Cape Verde Street.”

Ethan’s thumb stroked over the back of Jack’s hand.

* * * * *

Agent Welby hopped down from the helicopter on the landing pad behind a three-story colonial that looked like it had been transported from the American colonies in the 1700s to Ethiopia. Red brick chimneys rose from the slanted roof, and colonnades lined the front and back of the staunch building. Black shutters framed every window, offsetting the light brick exterior.

“Where are we?” Welby shouted over the chopper wash to the attaché guiding him into the building.

“Come. The Commissioner is waiting.”

They jogged together up the grand staircase inside, footsteps ringing out with loud echoes. Something gnawed at the base of Welby’s brain, and anticipation tickled down his spine. Where was everyone?

The attaché urged him along, waving Welby down the third-floor corridor. All of the windows were open, and Welby could see the motorcade driving north on Airport Road. They were approaching the Bulbula River, the first landmark.

Welby’s eyes slipped back to the attaché. His uniform was unkempt, almost sloppy. Almost like it didn’t quite fit him.

“Hey. Where are we? Where is everyone else?”

“They are waiting for us.”

“Hey. Asshole. Where the fuck are we?”

The attaché glared. “Somalian embassy. We took it over. This way. Quickly.” The attaché pushed open a door at the end of the hallway, entering a room overlooking the road and the approaching motorcade. Welby’s hand dropped to his gun, holstered on his hip. He stepped through the doorway.

In the center of the room, Commissioner Maleke stood waiting in his dress uniform, wearing every one of his medals. He was sweating, fat drops rolling down his skin and staining the high collar of his wool uniform. He looked up as the door opened and stared at Welby.

Welby tightened his grip on his sidearm.

“I am sorry,” Commissioner Maleke said. “They have my family.”

Before Welby could draw his weapon, bullets shot past him, slamming into the Commissioner. Behind Welby, three masked jihadist fighters sprang forward, ducking out from their hiding spots, tucked into an alcove along the wall. The commissioner fell to his knees, bleeding out.

Welby flipped the switch on his radio. Three jihadis, all armed with assault rifles stood against him in a closed space. He wouldn’t live through this, but he could damn well warn the president. “Break! Break!” He shouted. “Code—”

From behind, one of the jihadis leaped on Welby’s back, ripping his earpiece out of his ear and pulling on the throat mic until it was choking him. Gasping, Welby tried to peel the jihadi’s hands off his mic cord.

He didn’t see the knife rise and fall into his shoulder, or rise again and slide across the exposed skin of his neck.

Welby hit the floor next to the Commissioner.

* * * * *

Ethan jerked as Welby’s broken transmission shot through the radio net. Daniels unholstered his weapon as Collard gripped the steering wheel.

“What’s happen—” Jack started.

He didn’t get to finish.

Across the street, the tip of an RPG poked out the back window of a minibus.

“RPG!” Ethan hollered. “Go! Go!”

The RPG launched with a roar and the distinctive whistle-whine as it shot through the air. Ethan heard glass shattering as the blowback blasted out the windows of the minibus. “Go!” he shouted again, his whole body tensing, waiting for the impact. His hand squeezed down on Jack’s, tight enough to bruise.

Instead of slamming into the side of their SUV, the rocket sailed over their heads, heading straight for CAT Team Two’s chopper.

“Safety!” Ethan shouted into the radio, the codename for CAT Team Two. “Incoming! Evasive action, now!”

The chopper pilot cursed and spun, veering over the street in tight, cramped quarters, but the RPG clipped the rear rotor, chewing up the tail section of the helo. “Break, break,” the pilot called out. “Safety has been hit. Safety has been hit.” They spun in the air, struggling to maintain altitude, and Ethan saw members of the CAT team clinging to the cargo net and the handholds in the Black Hawk’s open bay. “Safety is going down. Brace for impact.”

There wasn’t anything they could do from the ground. Jack’s mouth fell open as the helo sputtered and spun, heading for the dusty highway behind them. Daniels twisted in his seat, staring wide-eyed.

Goddammit
. Ethan’s heart pounded, a staccato rhythm beating against his ribs. He kept holding on to Jack’s hand, hard enough to hurt. Fuck, it was all coming apart, in the space of twenty-three seconds, on a dusty road in Addis Ababa.

They had a backup plan for this. If shit hit the fan, like he’d been fucking promised that it wouldn’t, then emergency procedures called for the motorcade to divert to the British embassy, three miles away to the northeast. The American embassy was five miles away, and straight through Addis Ababa’s downtown. Collard jerked a hard right on Cape Verde Street, tires sliding and spinning in the dirt, brakes squealing, as the helo crashed behind them. Metal screamed, crunching and cracking as the rotors whomped into the ground, fracturing on impact. They sped away, the engine roaring, but Ethan, Jack, and Daniels spun in their seats, watching the chopper come apart in the middle of Airport Road.

Radio static blared, a fuzzy, warbling whine. Daniels cursed and ripped his earpiece out.

Turning back around, Ethan shoved his head between the two front seats, watching the road they’d diverted onto. Collard gunned the SUV’s engine, screaming them away from the crash site.

Embassies ran on either side of the street, a who’s who of countries that hated America. Chad, Congo, Burkina Faso, Palestine, and Somalia, all in a row, all overlooking the roadway.

The deserted roadway. Gone were the onlookers, the passers-by, and the civilians watching the motorcade. Fear spiked within Ethan as his adrenaline pumped, flooding his body. Dammit, this was exactly what he had been afraid of. Tension coiled around his spine, wrapping tight. His muscles clenched, ready for action. God help the man who tried to take Jack from him. His thumb stroked down the back of Jack’s hand, still held tight in his grip. Ethan knew, suddenly, that he would be killing people that day. The choice settled within him, heavy, but necessary.

He reached behind the backseat and grabbed an M-4 from the gun locker in the cargo area.

Jack watched him, wide-eyed, but silent.

In an instant, dozens of masked fighters waving assault rifles poured from the side streets, flooding onto Airport Road and Cape Verde Street. Some rolled minibuses into their path, lit on fire and belching black smoke into the air. Others fired their assault rifles wildly, spraying the sky with bullets. Once deserted, the roadways were now choked with fighters, with masked men wielding death, intent on their murder.

“Where the fuck did this come from?” Daniels shouted. “CIA said there was no intel for this!”

On the road ahead, five masked fighters lined up in the middle of the street, pointing their rifles at the president’s SUV.

“We’ve got bandits ahead!” Collard’s voice held a touch of panic, beneath his hard steel.

“Run them down!” Ethan bellowed.

When the bullets started flying, Jack flinched, cringing back from the windshield. Bulletproof, the glass spidered with each impact, but didn’t shatter.

“Faster!” Ethan shouted. “Run them off the road! Get past them before you can’t see out of this damn window!”

Collard grit his teeth and gunned the accelerator.

Ahead, a fresh patch of concrete caught the afternoon sunlight, glinting.

“Oh fuck,” Ethan breathed. He had a moment to grab Jack and push him back, holding him in his seat as he threw his shoulder into Jack’s, before Collard drove over the freshly poured concrete.

An IED buried just that morning exploded as they passed, launching the SUV into the air. The entire car blew off the ground from the blast, thrown through the air carelessly, flying like a toy. Tumbling and twisting, the SUV squealed and bounced when it landed, rolling over and over until it finally settled upside down in a long, sliding skid across the road.

Ethan’s head slammed against the rear passenger window, and he blinked fast, trying to still the cascading waves of dizziness and triple vision that blurred his sight. Glass exploded, the windows shattered as the SUV crunched and crumbled on every side. Sparks erupted, a shower of firelight enveloping them, as the roof skidded down the road. Daniels was shouting, low and through gritted teeth, and Collard was repeating the same words over and over. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!”

When they finally stopped, Ethan unbuckled his seatbelt and fell face-first to the roof of the SUV. He groaned as his world faded in and out, blacking out before fading back in. Burning rubber seared his nose. Smoke filled his eyes. The grit of the road rubbed against his skin and crunched between his teeth. Glass shards dug into his knees, his palms. His radio screamed, the CAT team following the president’s SUV reporting that they were taking fire and had been separated from Vigilant and Quarterback. The general’s vehicle going up in flames after a rocket blast. Armed jihadis rushing the streets. Bullets flying everywhere.

He rolled on his belly and looked out the shattered windows of the crumpled SUV. Feet were running toward them, coming from every direction.

Ethan flipped on his back and looked up at Jack. His heart squeezed, held in a vice. Jack wasn’t moving. Blood dripped from his scalp, running down his temple.

“Hey, Jack.” Ethan reached for his cheek. Cupped his face and his neck. Felt for a pulse as he held his breath.

God, there it was. Fast and thready, but there it was. Exhaling hard, Ethan fought for control. “Jack. Jack, wake up. C’mon, Jack, we’ve got to get out of here!”

In the front seat, Daniels groaned and unlocked his seatbelt. He fell forward, landing on his hands and knees on the destroyed windshield. “The fuck?” he groaned.

“Get Collard moving,” Ethan barked. “And get a perimeter set up! They’re fucking coming for us!” He turned back to Jack as Daniels reached for Collard, just beginning to move and groan.

“Jack…” Ethan breathed. “Don’t do this to me…”

Finally, Jack blinked. He coughed, tried to focus on Ethan’s face. “What happened?”

“We’re under attack,” Ethan said. He reached for Jack’s seat belt. “We have to move. There’s more of them coming for us. We’re cut off from the rest of the team. We’ve got to move on foot.” Ethan wrapped his arm around Jack’s shoulders and clicked the seat belt release. “We’ve got to go, Jack.”

Nodding, Jack collapsed against Ethan. He groaned again, but shook his head, seeming to try to clear it.

“Are you with me, Jack?”

“I’m here.” Jack squeezed Ethan’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Ethan shimmied out of the SUV on his belly, his hands cutting open on the shattered glass spread out on the street. Daniels and Collard were kneeling at the front and back of the SUV, popping off rounds from their M-4s at the crowd of jihadis surging their way.

“We’ve got to move!” Collard shouted. Blood streamed from his nose. Bullets zinged in at their crumpled SUV from all angles, from shooters high in the buildings and down low on the streets. “We’re in a kill box!”

He helped Jack slide out of the SUV, tugging on Jack’s bulletproof vest through his shirt to drag him the last few feet.

“What’s our situation?”

“CAT Two is down,” Daniels called. “CAT One is stuck between their crash site and us. The general’s car exploded, cutting off the main route back to the airport. Gunshots fired in all the overwatch buildings along the route.”

Fuck. Their entire security cordon had been compromised. They were on their own. The details assigned to the other SUVs would be getting their protectees back to safety by any means possible. Their priority was the people in their SUVs. Not the president. Not right now.

Which way to go? Make a move toward the crash site and hope to regroup with the CAT teams? Or head for the British embassy, three miles away by foot? Ethan leaned up against the back of the overturned SUV and fired a round of shots at the fighters. The riotous crowd of jihadis had dispersed, hiding behind flaming minibuses and taking cover from their gunfire. They’d be back, though. Bullets zinged past, return fire.

The way back to Airport Road was jammed with fighters and wreckage. Burning minibuses and piles of flaming tires blockaded the route. They couldn’t head that way.

He looked down Cape Verde Street. More fighters, and more minibuses. Some were on fire. Others sat silently in the middle of the road. Waiting.

Fuck. It had to be a trap.

But they couldn’t stay put, not with bullets slamming into the SUV next to their heads.

Ethan covered Jack with his body and shouted, “We have to make a run for it. We have to head for the British embassy. It’s three miles northeast up this road. It looks like they’ve got some traps ready for us, so we run low, we run fast, and we stick to the center of the street. Collard, you take point. Daniels, you and I run with Jack. I’ll watch the rear. Daniels, you keep your head on a swivel and check left and right. Heads up, call out anything you see. Trash, a pile of debris, anything that could cover a bomb.” He exhaled. “And stay away from the minibuses. Don’t use those as cover. They may be rigged to blow.”

Jack’s face was tight, his eyes pinched and filled with pain. Blood dripped from his forehead, catching on his eyelashes. “Understood,” Jack grunted.

Ethan quickly spat the plan into his radio as he fired down the road, trying to scatter the jihadis from their path. “All right, on three, we break. Collard, you take the lead. I’ll cover for you. Daniels, take Jack. I’m right behind.” Ethan swallowed and held Jack’s gaze for one moment that seemed to stretch long as the bullets whizzed through the air.

“Ready?”

Collard and Daniels shouted back, ready to go. “One…two…three!”