Alex Berenson: The Night Ranger

For the first time since Wizard had walked across the field, Wells thought they might all survive.

—

Wizard and his lead soldiers reached the crater where Awaale had stood. The thick black smoke from the burning technicals screened Wells’s view, but he heard sustained return fire. The Ditas were responding at last. Wizard waved his men forward, into the cloud. The White Men had to keep attacking. The Ditas still had more soldiers, and they had those four technicals that Awaale had kept in reserve. Awaale wasn’t around to order them into the fight, but his lieutenants might be. In open ground like this, a charge could look completely successful until the moment the enemy counterattacked.

The rest of the White Men jumped into their pickups and rolled across the field, shouting as they bumped through the mud. Only the two Range Rovers and four White Men remained. One sat in the Range Rover with the hostages. Another stood beside it. Waaberi and the guard in the backseat had stayed with Wells.

Wells unbuckled his belt, reached for the door handle. Waaberi put a hand on his arm.

“I did what I promised,” Wells said in Arabic. “It’s time for us to go.”

“They go. You stay.”

Wizard planned to hold Wells hostage. One last double-cross. Wizard should have been happy Wells had given him a chance to live. But he couldn’t quit. A trait he and Wells had in common.

So Waaberi and the guard would die.

Wells lifted his armrest, shifted left in his seat. The Rover had a wide console between the two front seats. Driver and passenger could sit side by side without ever touching accidentally, or even acknowledging each other’s existence. Very English. Wells looked over his left shoulder. No surprise, the guard sat in the middle of the backseat, legs splayed wide, the pistol loose in his right hand. Wells waved and the guard shook his head blankly. He nodded the pistol at Wells: I’m watching you .

—

Wells wasn’t sure of his next move. He’d hoped to reach down for his knife, come up, put it in the guard’s belly in one quick motion. But squirming from front seat into back was a slow and awkward motion in any vehicle. And these Rovers had generous backseats, plenty of space. By the time Wells came across the console, the guard would have enough time to get the pistol up. Another reason to hate luxury SUVs.

Waaberi leaned over the console, put a hand on Wells’s shoulder, pushed him back. “Enough—”

—

Just that quickly, Wells knew what to do. He leaned into Waaberi for a moment, pushing against him. Intuitively, Waaberi shoved back—

And Wells twisted his body away, and forward, toward the dashboard. As he broke contact with Waaberi, the Somali slipped toward him. In one fluid move, Wells swung his big right arm around Waaberi’s shoulders, used Waaberi’s own momentum to pull him out of the driver’s seat and slide him across the console. Wells was fully out of his seat now, crouched under the windshield, his ass against the dashboard. The guard lifted his pistol, but too late. Wells put his right hand high on Waaberi’s back and shoved him over the console through the space between the front seats. Waaberi’s body shielded Wells from the pistol and blocked the guard from moving his arm any further—

“Stop—” Wells yelled in English, the word simply a diversion. Before the guard or Waaberi could wriggle away, Wells reached down with his left hand, pulled the knife on his right ankle. Waaberi tried to push back, but Wells was braced against the dash and pinned Waaberi against the guard. Then with his left hand he lifted the knife over Waaberi and down onto the guard’s right shoulder. His left hand was his weak hand, but Wells kept stabbing, deepening the wound with each cut. He twisted the knife and the guard screamed and blood spurted onto the Rover’s pristine cream-colored leather seats. Now the guard’s right hand was useless and the pistol wasn’t a threat.

Wells didn’t want to kill these men, they weren’t his enemies, but he didn’t see any other option. He shoved Waaberi aside and raised the knife again and slashed crossways across the guard’s neck. The bright red arterial blood pumped out, and Wells suddenly found himself back on that mountain in Chechnya. The guard shrieked and tried to squirm away and raised a hand to his neck, but the blood kept coming through his fingers, too much blood, fountains of it.

Now Waaberi reached down into the well of the backseat, scrambling for the pistol the guard had dropped on the passenger-side floor. Wells followed him into the second row and switched the knife into his right hand and pushed Waaberi down against the blood-slicked leather with his left. Waaberi lifted the pistol—

And Wells raised the knife and buried the blade in Waaberi’s back, nearly between the shoulder blades, cutting his spinal cord in one vicious stroke. Waaberi didn’t scream. His body twitched and went soft and his bowels and bladder loosened and death filled the car. Wells pushed off him and twisted back to the driver’s seat, and as he did, he heard someone yelling. The guard who’d been outside the other Rover was just a few meters from the passenger-side front door. He lowered his AK—

Wells twisted the key in the ignition and the Rover’s engine rumbled to life. The guard stepped forward and pulled the trigger. He was so close that Wells saw spent cartridges pouring from the rifle. Wells could do nothing except wait for the 7.62-millimeter rounds to tear him up—

He’d forgotten the Rovers were armored. The window cracked into a spiderweb but didn’t break. The door beneath it didn’t even dent. Wells put the Rover in reverse, gunned the engine, spun the wheel left. When he’d turned so that the SUV faced the guard, he stopped and jammed on his seat belt and shifted into drive and floored the gas pedal. The guard fired until he had no rounds left and flung himself out of the way. Wells let him go, didn’t even try to clip him. He wanted the other Rover, which was broadside to him.

He accelerated across the mud. As he closed in, he saw Owen clawing at the second Rover’s driver from the backseat. Wells corrected his course, aiming for the vehicle’s engine block. Then the driver shook free of Owen and the vehicle leapt ahead. Wells leaned back in his seat, held the wheel loose, waiting for contact—

And smashed the other Rover side-on, metal crunching metal, glass tearing. Wells jerked against his seat belt and flew at the steering wheel as the airbag popped to embrace him. The corpses in the second row rolled forward and smacked into the front seats and somehow, a joke of physics, Waaberi’s right arm wound up in the center console like he was reaching out for the radio.

The airbag deflated. Wells took stock. His seat belt had bruised his chest and he’d banged his left arm into the window, but otherwise he was fine. With the armor the Rover weighed more than three tons, and its engine block, its stiffest and heaviest piece, had taken the brunt of the impact. Its hood was crumpled and its grille smashed, but Wells thought it would survive long enough to get them across the Kenyan border.

The other Rover was more seriously damaged. The driver’s door had caved, pinning the driver against the steering wheel. He was moving, feebly, but Wells didn’t think he’d survive without trauma care, which wasn’t available within a thousand miles.

Somewhere in the black smoke on the opposite side of the field, two technicals exploded. The Reaper pilot must have fired his last Hellfires at the Dita technicals back there, rather than the ones that Wizard’s own technical had disabled. Smart. The White Men were winning this fight almost too quickly. Wells and the hostages needed to go before Wizard found out Wells had killed his men and played demolition derby with his precious Range Rovers.