steps was the shouting infidel, his long black handgun a blur as he ran.
Adnan rose and stepped into the alleyway behind his target. He threaded his arrow into the bow, pulled back the bowstring tightly as he raised the tip to eye level, and centered it on the sprinting white man, who was nearing the turn to the back of the building. The man wore a backpack, so Adnan adjusted his aim so that his arrow would strike high in his target’s neck.
“Allahu Akbar.” Like two thousand years of proud Nubian archers before him, Adnan let the missile fly.
“Left turn! Left turn!” Court shouted at President Abboud. The older man stumbled; no doubt his balance was affected by his bindings, but also no doubt, decided Court, the man was crafty enough to willfully hamper their escape. Gentry was having none of it, though, and he lifted his right arm high to strike the man in the back of the head, to convince him of the urgency of the situation.
Just as the butt of his gun connected with the president’s sweaty head, Court felt an excruciating pain in his left shoulder blade above the top of his backpack, just three inches from his spine. The impact knocked him forward and spun him slightly, not to the ground but nearly, and he stumbled past the president but then caught himself as he followed the man around the corner.
“Ugh!” He grunted with the impact; the blistering sting did not dissipate as he slowed and looked back over his shoulder.
A long brown arrow protruded from his shoulder blade.
Court’s run slowed as he stared at it. His brain had difficulty processing what was right before his eyes for a long moment. He looked down to his chest to make sure it had not gone all the way through his body. It had not. He then tried to reach back for it and failed. Finally, he began jogging forward again, still looking back at the arrow. Softly, he muttered, “No fucking way.”
The beige van slammed on its brakes at the side entrance to the three-story hotel, a colonial-style building that must have been an architectural gem a hundred years earlier. With wooden balconies, gabled hoods above the windows, white shutters, and ornate latticework columns, the hotel looked more New Orleans than Arab African. Zack looked through the windshield, scanning for targets, but he could not help but notice the dilapidated state of this building and those on either side of the road. Spencer ducked into the side door of the vehicle, and it lurched forward again. Milo fired a pair of bursts down the street to keep the infantry’s heads down, but it appeared that the SLA attack to the west had drawn many of the troops away from the southwest corner of the square.
Spencer had been roaming Suakin in cover for two days, therefore he was dressed in local attire and carried only a small Uzi submachine gun. Quickly he grabbed a chest rig with body armor that had been waiting for him inside the van. He struggled to put it on in the back as the Econoline bounced on the bad road.
Whiskey Sierra’s vehicle turned north and accelerated quickly up a wider unpaved road. Civilians’ heads could be seen in windows and doorways and peering through the gates of walled buildings. The locals were staying off the roads themselves, which was good for them and good for Zack. He had no doubt the Sudanese Army would not think twice about collateral damage, though he and his men were doing their best to avoid it.
Less than thirty seconds after collecting Sierra Five at his hotel, the van again slammed on its brakes, this time at the doorway to a two-story building. Spencer opened the door.
They were parked less than a second before Zack transmitted. “Three, we’re not gonna sit here all damn day for—”
A crash on the roof of the van shook it to its chassis, the impact like a dull thud to the battered eardrums of the occupants. It was Dan, jumping from the roof of the building. He slid off the side of the vehicle and ducked into its open door. Sierra Three slammed the door shut behind him, and Sierra Two once again stomped on the gas pedal.
Zack called into his headset for Court, “Sierra One for Sierra Six, break. I’ve got my guys, and I’m getting the fuck outta here. You are on your own for now. Good luck, and watch