to reproduce, the intelligence groundwork Musa and his men had conducted had alone taken eight months.
“So what is it?” the customs inspector asked.
“It’s called a PXP-40HF portable equine imager.”
“Come again?”
Musa chuckled. “I know. Quite a mouthful. It’s a portable X-ray machine for horses. A friend of the university president lives in Dubai. Has this prized Arabian stallion worth more than either of us will make in a lifetime. Horse got sick, friend complains to president, the university puts the machine on loan.”
The inspector shook his head. “Must be nice. Did the horse make it?”
“Yes. Get this: It was just colic. Spent a week over there babysitting an X-ray machine because the guy’s vet didn’t recognize a simple case of indigestion.”
“Well, at least you got some sun. Okay ...” the inspector said, flipping through the paperwork. “I need radioisotope code, activity level, dose rate, contamination limits. ...”
“Page four. And page nine. Pretty low across the board.”
“Yeah, okay, I see it. So how dangerous is this thing?”
“Pretty harmless unless you manage to take a couple hundred X-rays of your balls. Then you’d have problems.”
The inspector laughed at this. “Not exactly a WMD, is it?”
Musa shrugged. “Rules are rules. Better to be a little overcautious than the opposite, I suppose.”
“Yeah. Hey, how come they didn’t fly you straight into Calgary?”
“Couldn’t get a flight in there until Wednesday. Thought it’d be easier to come in here and rent a car. With luck, I’ll be home before nightfall.”
The inspector signed where he needed to sign and affixed adhesive seals on the crate. He had Musa countersign in the appropriate places, gave the paperwork once last glance, then handed it back. “You’re good to go.”
“My rental car is in the parking lot. ...”
“Just pull up to the gate. I’ll tell them to wave you through.”
Musa shook his hand. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing. Travel safe.”
67
AFTER STAUNCHING the blood pulsing from Bari’s severed fingers, they sat him in a chair in the living room and duct-taped his feet to the legs. The leader of the group they duct-taped to the trestle table. Both men were still unconscious. Finally, they policed up the bodies and piled them into the bathtub, atop Bari’s second bodyguard.
“I’m going to take a walk around the block,” Dominic said. “See if the natives are restless. Don’t think we attracted any attention, but ...”
“Sounds good.”
“Be back in five.”
Brian sat in the living room, studying their captives and doing a mental postmortem of their takedown. Pretty damned good job, he thought. Dominic had always been good with a gun, and a pro at Hogan’s Alley, but this had been the first time they’d really gotten into the shit together. Sure, there’d been that mall thing, but that wasn’t quite the same, was it? Here they’d taken on genuine URC bad boys on their home turf. Not really accustomed to taking prisoners, though; he’d have to change mental gears on that point. The butt of the Browning had laid both mutts out, sure enough, but not very efficiently. Maybe a lead-and-leather sap might do the trick. Have to look into that.
He heard the courtyard gate open. He got up, walked to the door, peeked around the corner. “Just me, bro,” Dominic said, walking inside.
“How’s it looking?”
“Quiet. The place really dies down after dark. Another couple hours and it’ll probably be a ghost town.”
“Which brings up a good point.”
“These two?” Dominic replied, nodding at Bari and the other one.
“Yeah. If they’ve got info, we can either try to wring them out here or try to get them out.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure, we’re not getting them out of Libya on our own. Maybe a run for Tunisia.”
“How far?”
“Hundred miles west, give or take. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s have a chat with Bari and see where it takes us.”
With a cold glass of water poured over his head and a few light slaps to the face, they were able to rouse Bari. He blinked several times, then looked around the room, then at Brian and Dominic.
He barked a few words in Arabic, then said in heavily accented English, “Who are you?”
“The cavalry,” Brian said.
Bari squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “My hand.”
“Just two fingers,” Dominic said. “We stopped the bleeding. Here.” He handed Bari half a dozen aspirin from a bottle they’d found in the bathroom. Bari shoved the tablets into his mouth, then accepted a glass of water from Brian.
“Thank you. Who are you?”
“But by the looks of it, we’re the only friends you’ve got left in