“The back examining room.”

“Stay there. One of the trucks is coming back.”

There was fresh gunfire at front. This time, though, none of the bullets was directed at the clinic. The Sudan First gunmen were driving through the area, firing indiscriminately.

“All right,” said Danny. “They’re moving south. Are you all right?”

“So far.”

“We’re coming for you. Is there a basement?”

“No.” She’d already decided this was the safest room in the building.

“Don’t do anything until you hear my voice.”

“Sure,” she told him.

Danny closed the connection.

“She’s nothing but trouble,” said Nuri. “I told you. And this Bloom. If she’s really a washed out MI6 agent—”

“Not now, Nuri,” snapped Danny. “Boston, Flash, you’re with me.”

Danny left the tent, trying to control his anger as he strode toward the Mercedes. The truth was, Nuri was right—even if he should’ve kept his mouth shut about it.

Boston and Flash hustled behind him, humping two ammo-laden rucks apiece. Beside their SCAR assault rifles, Boston had an M-48 squad-level machine gun.

They piled into the car. Danny started the engine and was about to pull away when Nuri grabbed the back door.

“I thought you were staying,” Danny said.

“We better hurry—there are two dozen men coming by foot from the Sudan First camp.”

Chapter 9

Southern Sudan

Amara’s escorts eyed the laptop nervously. The case was more than large enough to hold a charge of plastic explosive powerful enough to take out a good portion of the small cluster of buildings that served as the nerve center of the camp.

He’d shown them that it worked; beyond that, Amara could offer no other assurance. He held it under his arm and walked with them to the small hut where Assad lived and worked.

Assad had served an apprenticeship in Iraq and was one of the older members of the Brotherhood, respected for his experience, though not completely trusted by all because he had been born in Egypt. He and Amara had not been particularly close before this assignment, and in fact Amara suspected that Assad was not the one who chose him.

Assad’s cousin Sayr served as his aide and bodyguard. He was standing outside the house, and put up his hand as Amara approached.

“You’re back,” said Sayr. “You’ve taken your time.”

“I drove night and day,” answered Amara. “And ran two blockades.”

Sayr pointed to the laptop. “That is not allowed in the hut.”

“This is why I came,” said Amara, holding it out.

“It’s not allowed inside. I’ll take it.”

Amara hesitated, but turned it over. There was no alternative.

“Be careful,” he said. “It has a program on it that’s important. Do not even turn it on.”

Sayr frowned at him. Amara wondered if he even knew what a program was—unlike his cousin, Sayr was not particularly bright.

One of his escorts knocked, then opened the door to the small building. Assad sat in the middle of the floor on a rug. There were pillows nearby, but no other furniture.

“I have returned, Brother,” Amara said, stepping inside. “I have eliminated the Asian as directed and returned with the computer and the guidance system.”

Assad nodded. He stared blankly at the rug, seemingly in prayer, though it was not the time to pray. Finally he looked up and gestured for Amara to sit.

“The Asian is dead?” Assad asked.

“As you directed.”

“He was an evil man,” said Assad. “But a useful one.”

The door opened. Sayr entered and walked over to his cousin, stooping down and whispering in his ear. As he straightened, he shot Amara a look of disdain.

“Very good,” said Assad, his gaze remaining on Amara. “Fetch us some tea.”

Sayr gave Amara another frown, then left.

“How strong is your belief?” asked Assad. “If it were necessary to sacrifice yourself, could you do it?”

A shudder ran through Amara’s body. A true believer was supposed to be prepared to sacrifice himself for jihad, accepting death willingly for the glory of the Almighty. But it was a complicated proposition. It was one thing to be willing to die in battle, and quite another to accept what Assad seemed to be asking: deliberately sacrificing himself.

The Brothers did not as a general rule use suicide bombers to advance their agenda. They were considered unreliable. But there were always exceptions.

Amara hoped he wasn’t to be one.

“Could you become a martyr?” repeated Assad.

“Of course,” said Amara, knowing this was the only answer he could give, even if it did not come from his heart.

“You hesitate.”

“I . . . only question my worthiness.”

Assad smiled but said nothing. Sayr returned with a small teapot and two cups. He carefully wiped Assad’s and set it down before him. He was much less careful with Amara’s; liquid dripped from the cup.

“He doesn’t like me,” said Amara when Sayr had left. “But I have done nothing to him.”

“You’ve taken his place on an important mission to America,” said Assad.

“I have?”

“We have been asked by friends to help a project they have undertaken. One of our Brothers is in the Satan capital. He needs some technical assistance, and equipment. We think you can help him.”

“What sort of help do you mean?” asked Amara, unsure if the question was meant literally or was a more subtle way of asking if he would be willing to become a martyr.

He certainly hoped it was the former.

“Drink your tea,” said Assad, nodding, “and I will instruct you.”

Chapter 10

Duka

They were still about two miles from the city when MY-PID told Danny that the trucks blasting the area occupied by Meurtre Musique had met up with the men on foot.

“Where are they headed?” Danny asked the system.

“Insufficient data.”

“They’re kind of aimless,” said Nuri, watching on his control display. “They’re just intent shooting up whatever they can. There’s a group of men in Meurtre Musique’s area. Looks like they’re planning a counterattack.”

“We’ll go north and come back around from that end.”

“Don’t get too close to the house where Li Han is,” said Nuri. “We don’t want to spook him.”

“We’re the last thing he’s going to worry about,” said Danny.

He pressed the accelerator to the floor, speeding down the road. There was gunfire in the distance.

I shouldn’t have let her go, he thought. He’d put the whole mission in jeopardy.

Why had he given in? The argument that he couldn’t stop her didn’t hold water.

It was because she was pretty, he realized, and he liked her.

What a fool he was.

Despite the fact that Danny had told her not to leave the building, Melissa asked Bloom if there wasn’t a safer place in the vicinity. The clinic, she reasoned, was the largest building in the area, and a ready target for anyone who didn’t like Meurtre Musique.

“There are the huts,” said Bloom. She was shaking. “The walls are mud.”

“It still might be better than staying here,” Melissa told her. She pulled the desk back from the door.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to scout the front.”

“What if they’re nearby? Don’t go.”

“Are you OK?”

“Of course not.”

Melissa looked into the older woman’s eyes. She saw fear there for the first time. She hadn’t completely believed the story about Bloom leaving MI6; she thought there was a good chance that she was in fact still an agent under deep cover. But the look in the nurse’s eyes told her it was true.