Page 103 of Over the Edge

“Thanks for the sentiment. I happen to feel the exact same way about you.” He opened his mouth to disagree, but she ground out, “And don’t you tell me I don’t have that right because you’re old and decrepit, or whatever excuse you’re making for having decided to die before this mission ever got going.”

He didn’t exactly think of himself as decrepit. But prudence suggested he not correct her. Not when she was riding the ragged edge of ripping his head off at the slightest provocation.

He slid backward until he could roll behind a big boulder. Anna followed suit and they both rose to a crouch. Staying low, they put the mountain top between them and Tarazan. After that, they hiked quickly, descending in a controlled run through the loose dirt and gravel until they reached the road and the Range Rover.

It took the rest of the afternoon to backtrack to the previous village.

They found an auto mechanic’s shop, and Anna negotiated in swift Zagari to trade the Range Rover for a crappy little pick-up truck that Trevor swore had rolled over a few times. The tires were bald, and the engine coughed like it had terminal lung cancer.

“Get better tires,” he muttered in English to her. “And an oil change and a full tank of gas.”

She relayed the demands, and the mechanic snapped in Zagari even Trevor could understand. “Fine. Why don’t you just fix the cursed thing yourself?”

“Deal,” Trevor replied quickly. “Tell him to go home for the night. If I can use his tools and his lift, I’ll work on the truck until I’m satisfied with it.”

The mechanic didn’t like that idea at all until Anna handed the guy the keys to their Range Rover, which was dirty but otherwise in tip-top condition. The Range Rover was worth fifty times what the truck was, and the mechanic knew it.

The guy pulled the garage door shut and left them inside the shop with their gear and a wreck that Trevor had twelve hours to make operational.

It turned out Anna knew enough about cars to be of help, passing him tools and finding parts in the jumble on the mechanic’s shelves.

It took until the wee hours of the morning, but between the two of them they cleaned up or rebuilt outright all the vital parts of the engine. They bedded down in the shop, and when morning came and the mechanic opened the big door, letting in a flood of sunlight, Trevor and Anna headed out.

Before calling it a night, they’d used a big tarp and a handful of bungee cords from the mechanic’s storeroom to tie down their equipment, which they’d packed in burlap feed bags Anna’d found. She stuffed a bunch of old rags on top of the gear in case anyone got the bright idea to open one of the bulky sacks. It was the best they could do to disguise their weapons.

On their way out of the little town, they stopped at a store with clothing in the window, and Trevor bought brown tweed pants, a long white shirt, a long vest to go over it, and one of the slouchy caps the local men preferred. Anna bought loose pants and a long dress to go over them, plus a long coat and a head scarf.

Trevor had dyed his beard black last night, and the leftover dye and grease from working on the engine made his hands look sufficiently rough. They were already scarred and calloused from his years in special operations.

They headed back toward Tarazan.

They topped the mountain they’d lain on yesterday, and Anna tensed on the bench seat beside him. He knew the feeling. They were so close to their destination, but all the deadliest hurdles still lay before them.

“One step at a time,” he murmured.

She nodded but didn’t reply.

The truck’s transmission wasn’t great under the best of circumstances, and they’d had no parts to properly repair it with. Going down the steep incline to Tarazan, it slipped and caught alarmingly. He downshifted and used the clutch and brakes to ease the truck to the village.

They drove at no more than ten miles per hour through the tiny settlement. Two men sat in the door of a store, and Trevor smiled and waved as if he recognized them. They waved back, looking perplexed. The good news was they didn’t shoot him with the AK-47’s resting by their feet.

He turned at the next intersection onto the road that would take them to the bridge. They bumped along as he babied the truck around and through giant ruts so deep the bottom of the truck dragged the ground.

“If you need me to get out and push,” Anna said wryly, “just say the word.”

“It may come to that.”

The road curved to the left, and the bridge came into sight ahead.

“Shit.”

Anna looked up sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“Checkpoint. What do you want to bet it’s Haddad’s men?”

“The stuff in the back is food and fabric his women have requested. I’m a seamstress,” Anna said quickly. “Follow my lead.”

“Uhh, okay.”

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