Page 43 of Enemy of My Enemy
“Yeah. And you’re coming too.”
“Me?” Doc squawked.
“You’re annoying enough to fit in.” In reality, Doc had a sharp pair of eyes, and he was one of the better spotters on Adam’s team. “Get ready. Bring your weapon under your robes. Keep your face covered and wear your shades.”
Doc cursed but slid down the dune and rolled to his back, getting his gear in order. Next to Adam, Coleman called for a water check as the sun continued to climb.
He followed Doc down the hill and fixed his robes, hiding his M4 under the folds across his chest. They headed back for their camels and grabbed two. No matter which one Adam reached for, they all spat at him. There was some mutual hatred between him and camels, some kind of ever-present disgust.
They circled the wadi and crossed over to the hard-packed sands several miles down from the rebel camp, and then doubled back and approached from the south, heading toward their men on the ridge. Coleman radioed in that he had them in his gun sights, and the rest of the team were covering on the dune.
And then they arrived at the camp, pulling their camels to a stop and tying them up under a scrub tree.
The stench was almost overpowering. Sweat-soaked bodies and sunbaked canvas turned the air sour, along with the acrid stench of burning diesel and rancid trash. Camel-shit fumes wafted over the mass of humanity, the only hint of a breeze carrying the offal. Radios blared, spitting out Arabic beats and angry diatribes from local broadcasts run by rebels. Fast Arabic and local dialects shouted from every direction, and the gunfireratta-tattedin fast bursts. The reverberations shook their bones, and Doc and Adam shared a long look before heading into the ramshackle market.
Adam made a show of checking the edge of a machete at a stall that sold them in messy stacks, the merchant bragging that they were made from strong Chinese steel and cost a fraction of any other machete being sold. Across the stall, stocky rebels hefted rocket launchers and practiced sighting in on the camels.
Three stalls over, Cook was moving, slipping through the crowd of rebel shoppers. He had his shades on and a handkerchief tied around his neck, and his sweat-stained shirt clung to his wiry muscles.
Adam nudged Doc, and the two moved down the line of raucous stalls, ignoring the barkers shouting at them to check their wares as pounding Arabic dance music blared.
They were getting closer. Cook was only two stalls away, his back to them. Adam reached for his M4, holding the grip beneath his robes.
The dance music cut off and furious Arabic bellowed from the tinny radio speakers surrounding them. Vendors paused, reaching for the radios and tuning out the static, trying to hear better.
Adam’s gaze fixed on Cook. Their target had stopped.
His palm squeezed on his rifle’s grip, fingers curling around the trigger.
“L-T,” Doc hissed. “What the fuck is that radio saying?” He stepped close to Adam, crowding him and covering his reach for his own M4. “They’re all fucking looking at us!”
One of the vendors turned the radio dial up. Heads turned their way, eyes narrowing.
“L-T!” Doc hissed again. “The fuck is going on?”
Blinking, Adam glanced right and left, and finally listened to the bellowing Arabic belting from the radio. In between the static, he heard one of the rebel DJs shouting about infiltrators, American spies in the region sent there to destabilize the rebels and kill them all.“We have this information straight from the top, my fellow fighters! Look to your brothers and root out these American spies, these Western pigs sent from their pig president!”
Fuck. Adam’s eyes flicked up and down the market stalls, searching for an exit as the rebels surrounding them closed ranks and started pointing their way. Curses flew as rifles chambered rounds.
His gaze caught on Cook, now facing him, staring at him, and watching the rebels in the market circling their prey.
Cook smirked.
“Fuck!” Adam pressed his mic and radioed his men. “Evac! Our cover is blown! Get out now!”
“We’re coming for you, L-T,”Coleman barked back immediately.
“Negative!” Adam whipped out his M4 as Doc did the same. They turned back to back, trying to fend off the swarming rebels. “Get the fuck out of here!”
He spotted the machete dealer again and the piles and piles of blades stacked almost four feet high. Beyond the machete dealer’s stall, a tarp of limp vegetables lay on the ground, the vegetables withered in the heat. Beyond that, a stretch of sand before the cluster of camels munching on scrub vegetation. A desperate plan formed in his mind.
“Get the camels and circle to the south. Ride hard for Al-Fashir.”
“We’re not leaving you, L-T.”
“We’ll be riding south. Take out the bastards chasing us.”
“What’s the plan, L-T?” Doc’s voice had lost his sarcastic teasing, his ever-present cockiness. “What do we do?”
