The Oracle (Fargo Adventures #11) - Clive Cussler Page 0,114

and place for everything. First, he had a debt to collect.

When he arrived at Ben Ayed’s apartment, Ben was waiting out front, holding a hard-shell briefcase. Ex-military, an expert in hand-to-hand combat, Ben was also a former sniper, which made him invaluable should things not work out as planned.

The pair drove out to the archeological park, then continued past it until they reached the back road, parking in the same location Tarek had chosen that night he’d followed—and lost—the Fargos. The temple ruins were located beyond the olive grove on the same property belonging to the graduate student’s family. It was a hike from this direction. The hilly terrain beyond the vast grove meant there was no easy route to the ruins and excavation site. But the road would allow them to approach without being seen from the archeologist’s house.

Tarek parked and looked over at the briefcase on Ben’s lap. “I hope you brought extra ammo.”

“More than enough.” Ben opened the case, loaded up three magazines, and inserted one into his Vektor SP1 9mm, the South African version of the Beretta 92F. He pulled back the slide, chambered a round, then slid the gun into his holster, the magazines into his belt pouch, pulled his shirt over that, and shoved the gun case beneath the front seat. “Doubt I’ll need that much.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Tarek said, checking his own weapon. “If the Fargos get back before we’re done, you’ll change your mind.”

“If you’re so worried, why not wait?”

“Because I have a reputation to protect. What good is my word if I allow one person to get away with dictating the terms of repayment?”

“A shame that whole ransom thing didn’t work,” Ben said as they started the long walk toward the ruins.

The very thought of it angered Tarek. What should have turned a profit ended up wasting both time and money. The plan had been doomed from the beginning—his fault for not doing a better search of the Fargos’ background. And as much as he’d like to recoup his losses, he was willing to write it off in exchange for putting a bullet in Sam Fargo’s head. The original debt, though?

Not a chance he was willing to let that go. The only way to ensure that no one ever tried to take advantage of him was to send a very clear and unmistakable message.

He didn’t care how old or how young, male or female—if the money wasn’t there, he was going to put a bullet in every one of their heads.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Life is lived forward, but understood backward.

– AFRICAN PROVERB –

The timing of Amal’s seizure bothered Sam, but Nasha’s presence prevented him from discussing it with Remi, who managed a simple “That was odd” as the three got into the car, then drove to the airport.

“I’m glad Lazlo’s there to keep an eye on things.” No doubt, they’d sort it out after they got back.

“How was the flight, Mr. Atiku?” Sam asked once they were in the car on their way to Bulla Regia.

“Much smoother than my last trip.”

Nasha’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know you’ve been on a plane before. It was my first time.”

“Many years ago when I was in the army . . . Will we see Professor Lazlo? Chuk’s parents wanted me to personally thank him for helping to get Chuk away from Kambili. He was—what’s the American term?—fly man.”

“Wingman,” Sam said as he slid in behind the wheel.

“What’s a wingman?” Nasha asked.

“A helper,” Sam said.

“Was I a good wing girl?”

Sam glanced at her in his rearview mirror. “The best. Maybe even better than Lazlo.”

She beamed as she sat back in her seat.

“Buckle up,” Sam said as he pulled away from the curb.

A few minutes into the trip, his phone rang.

Remi looked at it where it sat in the console. “Wendy,” she said. “Probably wants to make sure we picked up Nasha’s uncle. She’s turned into a regular mother hen, taking care of those girls.”

Sam laughed. “That she has.”

He navigated through the airport traffic while Remi spoke to Wendy. After a minute of back-and-forth, she said, “I’ll put it on speaker and you can tell him yourself . . . Go ahead.”

“Something wrong?” Sam asked.

“More like perplexed,” Wendy replied. “Remember the missing nails?”

Sam surveilled Nasha in the rearview mirror, then her uncle. “I thought we’d decided that was all water under the bridge.”

“We did,” she said quickly. “But Yaro found about forty or more boxes of nails buried in the dirt pile behind the shed. He thinks