Alex Berenson: The Night Ranger

“It never ends, does it?” she said.

“It hasn’t yet.”

—

Considering what had happened to his leg, it only seemed fair that Owen would get to speak to his parents first. Gwen and Hailey played rock-paper-scissors to see who would be next. Hailey won. Gwen waited.

She closed her eyes and imagined what she’d say to her mother and father and sister, the shock in their voices. Until finally she heard Hailey say, “Mom. We only have one phone and it’s Gwen’s turn . . . Okay. I love you. I love you so much.”

The phone was slick with Hailey’s tears. Gwen took it, laid it carefully on her lap. Her fingers trembled as she punched in the numbers and heard the ring—

—

At Langley, Tomaso had focused on the main battle area until he launched the last two Hellfires. By the time he turned the cameras to the field’s west edge, Wells was speeding off in the Rover, leaving two corpses in the dirt. Shafer had always known what Wells could do. Seeing it, even on a monitor seven thousand miles away, was another matter. One Somali’s throat had been hacked nearly in half. The other had a knife so deep in his back that it seemed to be part of his body.

“It’s almost a miracle that he hasn’t gone insane,” Shafer said.

“You think he’s not insane.”

“You’re lucky he likes you, Vinny.”

“He likes me?”

“No.”

“Looks like he has all three hostages with him. Should I follow them or go back to the battlefield?” Tomaso said.

“Follow them,” Shafer said. “I’m worried Wizard will come after him.”

“Makes no difference.”

“I don’t know if you’ve gotten entirely senile, Ellis, but we’ve got no Hellfires left. No way to stop that technical.”

“Don’t need a Hellfire. We’ve got the Reaper.”

Tomaso understood first. “Dive-bomb it into the technical. I like it.”

But the White Men didn’t chase the Rover. Maybe Wizard didn’t want to challenge the Reaper. So they had nothing to do but watch as the big SUV bounced west toward the border. No need for a compass or GPS. Just keep the sun in the rearview mirror. Every few minutes Tomaso updated the distance to Kenya . . . twenty-five kilometers . . . twenty . . . fifteen . . .

“Time to tell the White House to call off the dogs.” Duto said when the Rover was ten kilometers out.

“Let the Kenyans know, too, so they don’t shoot anybody.”

At the door, Duto stopped. “Thank your boy for me. This has got to be worth at least ten points with the undecideds, don’t you think?”

“If God exists, you’ll have a stroke.”

“I’m glad you’re an atheist, Ellis.” Duto left.

When the Rover was three kilometers from the border, Shafer tapped Tomaso. “One last thing.” Shafer explained what he wanted.

“You sure it won’t freak them out.”

“They’ll get it.”

“Okay,” Tomaso said. He adjusted the Reaper’s flaps and throttle and the drone suddenly went into something close to a dive. In two minutes, it pulled in front of the Rover even as its altitude dropped from fifteen hundred meters to five hundred.

“I’m going to bring our speed down, and then I’ll bring it up here as he comes across.”

So it was that the Reaper buzzed the Rover low and slow just as Wells and the hostages reached the border. On screen, Shafer saw Wells lean forward as the Reaper drew close. Wells frowned—this close, the Rover’s optics were so good that they could see not just his nose but each nostril—and then he seemed to understand the message: Welcome home. He nodded, waved.

Shafer found himself foolishly, joyously, waving back.

—

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The team at Putnam never quits. Thanks to Neil, Ivan, Leslie, Tom, Kate, and everyone else at 375 Hudson. To Heather Schroder, the agent next door. To Jeffrey Gettleman, foreign correspondent extraordinaire, and J. Peter Pham, for answering all my dumb questions about East Africa’s politics. (Mistakes are mine alone.) To Martin and all the other Kenyans who introduced me to one of the world’s most beautiful and fascinating countries. I hope to return many times. To my family for their counsel on this book and so much else. And of course, to my beautiful and talented wife, Jackie, and Lucy, our little girl. May she be the best of both of us.

If you got this far, you’ve earned my email address, which is: alexberensonauthor@gmail.com. I welcome all comments and suggestions. For seven years now I’ve responded to every email I receive, and I hope to keep that string alive. Meantime, see you on Facebook and Twitter.

’Til next year.

ALSO BY ALEX BERENSON

The Shadow Patrol

The Secret Soldier

The Midnight House

The Silent Man

The Ghost War

The Faithful Spy

The Number (nonfiction)