Three of them, apparently having lost their nerve, began crawling to the west, moving perpendicular to Nuri as he came down the hill. Trying to get away, they were inadvertently coming toward him.

Nuri raised his rifle. He leaned his head over, peering through the scope. But he couldn’t see the image. He raised his head, checking to make sure the caps were off—they certainly were, and the scope was on and operating. But for some reason his eyes just wouldn’t focus. He moved his head back and forth, still trying to see through the damn thing, his nerves starting to rise.

I need to shoot these bastards now!

Finally he decided they were so close he didn’t need the scope. He started to pull his head back—and of course that was when the image appeared in front of his eye.

The men were low to the ground, moving on their haunches. He raised his shoulder slightly, bringing the crosshair level with the chest of the first man in the group. Slowly, he swung to the left, praying he wouldn’t lose the image.

He tightened his finger against the trigger. The SCAR was a light gun, and for Nuri it always seemed to jump to the right. His plan was to take advantage of that—he’d move in that direction, left to right, taking all three if he could.

His target rose, full in the crosshairs.

The gun gave a light, rapid burp as he pressed the trigger. He swept it right, then brought it back, pumping bullets into the tangos. All three were now on the ground, though he couldn’t tell if he’d hit them or they simply flattened at the sound of bullets crashing nearby.

“Grenade!” yelled Boston over the radio.

Nuri turned to look in Boston’s direction, hoping his friend would be able to avoid the explosion. Belatedly, he realized that Boston was warning him that he’d fired. He ducked as the shell exploded less than forty yards away, back near the larger clump of tangos.

A collective scream followed the bang, one of the wounded men screeching in pain. Nuri turned his attention back to the men in front of him, sighting the prone bodies through his scope. One moved. He fired, but the gun jerked against his shoulder, the bullets flying too high. He leaned back left, fired again. The bodies jerked with the impact of the bullets.

Nuri jumped up and began running toward them. He reached them in a few quick strides, his thighs straining. They lay a few feet from each other, guns on the ground. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed the weapons and tossed them into the field.

Gunfire stoked up again near the road.

“Boston—what’s going on?”

“I got three or four more still moving, right by the road. You see them?”

Nuri got to one knee and peered through the weapon’s sight. Once again he had an almost impossible time sighting.

Jesus, I’m going blind out here.

Finally he saw them. He loosed a stream of bullets, then saw a glowing tracer flick from his barrel—he’d reached the end of the magazine.

He slammed the box out and around, using the spare—the team rifles had their mags doubled up so they were easy to change. He fired another burst, then rose to a crouch and began going down the hill.

“What do you think? What do you think?” he asked Boston.

“Yeah, they’re down. Hold your position. I want to make sure no one’s moving up on the left from the buildings.”

Nuri dropped back to one knee. He looked down at the scope and saw it was flickering—it wasn’t his eyes; there was something wrong with the optics or circuit.

Somehow, that failed to reassure him.

A dark veil hung close to the ground. He took the scope and found that the image held steady if he kept his hand on the top. He scanned the field. The men closest to him were dead or dying. Nothing else moved.

“All right,” said Boston. “We’re clear here. You see me? I’m on the road.”

Boston rose and waved his arm.

“I see you.”

“I’m going to check these bodies here. Then I’m coming up in your direction. You’re covering me.”

“Right. My scope’s screwed up.”

“What?”

“Aw nothing. I’m good.” Nuri rose. His legs had stiffened and his arm had tensed so long that it felt almost numb. He swung his upper body back and forth slowly, trying to loosen the muscles.

His eye caught something moving in the area where the grenade had exploded. He froze, staring at it.

Nothing.

Nuri started walking in that direction, moving slowly. The men there must be dead, he knew, yet he was filled with nervous energy, anticipation.

Fear. That was what he was filled with. He was so tired he was starting to be afraid of things.

He stopped about ten yards from the closest dead body.

All dead. Nothing to worry about. Once again he scanned the field, left to right, then back, slowly. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

And something else. Something pushing against the tall grass.

He turned in its direction and started to raise his rifle so he could use the scope. A shadow rose near the road.

“Watch out!” he yelled.

In the same moment he lowered the barrel of his rifle and fired a burst, short of the shadow. Without thinking he raised his left arm slightly and fired another burst, this one dead on.

There was a scream. Boston, on the other side of the road, fired as well.

“You OK?” he asked Boston.

“I’m good, I’m good. We get him?”

“Yeah, he’s done.”

Nuri took a long, deep breath, then tried not to breathe at all, listening.

“Not bad work for a spy,” said Boston when he came close. “Back to the women?”

They found them exactly where Nuri had left them. The pistol was still on the ground, a few feet from Bloom.

Chapter 27

Duka

Kimko ran until his lungs felt like red hot iron burning through his chest. Explosions, gunfire, the Osprey—he was running from the Apocalypse, the Horsemen determined to drag him to hell. Finally his legs gave out: he tumbled forward in a heap, collapsing in the front yard of a native hut.

He had no energy, no will to live. The damp ground swallowed him; the night soaked into his pores.

At some point he realized the gunfire had stopped.

I must go, he told himself, before they come for me. And so he began to crawl, tentatively at first, then more steadily.

Escape.

Finally, Kimko climbed to his feet and began walking. He took stock as he walked, figuring out where he was—east of the city, in the scrub hills that rose into mountains. He tried to make sense of what had happened: the Americans had intervened in the small war, surely to get their UAV back.

He tried to think of what to do. He couldn’t go back to the Sudan First camp, clearly, and to go back to the city was death. But by the same token, he couldn’t survive out here by himself. Even if the Americans didn’t hunt him down and the two different factions left him alone, the wilderness was not a place for a man with only a pistol.

It would take at least a day on foot to reach another settlement; it could easily take longer if he got confused.

What was he to eat? Or drink—he craved vodka, and would gladly now have drunk a liter without stopping, without even thinking.

He had his sat phone. He could call his supervisors for help.

It meant admitting that he had failed. It also wouldn’t guarantee help would be sent. On the contrary, further failure might be viewed in the harshest possible light. They might leave him to rot.

He needed to think of a better plan.