A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [68]
A few moments later and a mile away, they saw Amira nestling at the edge of the plain, a great sloping snow-covered hillock rearing a couple of hundred feet above it, the mountains swallowed by the mist behind.
“We’re starting our approach,” Wali Hussein called, and Slay dropped down from his seat and found Miller and Hamza at the rear of the cabin. He peered out a porthole with binoculars he’d brought from the flight deck.
The Raptor went straight on, turning at the last moment, flying parallel to the village, finding no sign of people, turning in again and starting to descend thirty or forty yards away from the edge of the village, for the streets between the mud houses were extremely narrow.
Inside the crude porch of his house, Ali Selim peered out at the heavy rain, watching the helicopter descend.
He was holding a mobile in his left hand and said in English, “Stay online, Omar, but tell the crew of the second Raptor to take off when I call. Hold the other in reserve and fly that yourself if needed.”
“As you order, master,” came the reply.
Ibrahim said, “They come, lambs to the slaughter, and the Jewish woman in a burka.”
“I have plans for her, a very valuable young woman. Once she’s in your charge, it will be your responsibility to see that no harm comes to her. Now step outside so that they can see you, beckon to them and tell them to come here,” Ali Selim told him.
Ibrahim obeyed and stood in the rain, watching them approach, a formidable figure in black headcloth and plaited dreadlocks, black robes, a bandolero about his waist, and holding an AK-47.
They stopped dead, looking at him, and at that moment, shots rang out inside the helicopter.
Wali Hussein was responsible for everything that followed. As he landed the Raptor and switched off, he instantly removed his flying jacket and baseball cap and threw them across the cabin to Dillon.
“There you are, then. Let’s see how you get on being me.”
Dillon put them on, reached up and yanked the scarf from around Wali Hussein’s neck, and put it on. “Will I do?”
The resemblance was remarkable, and he picked up a bag. Wali Hussein frowned and said, “What’s in the bag?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.” Dillon jumped down to the ground, reached up to help Sara, who was followed by Holley, who had found a large black umbrella in the helicopter and opened it, pulling Sara close to him in the pouring rain as they walked.
Inside the Raptor, Slay, Hamza, and Miller were still holding back, and Wali Hussein said, “What’s he got in the bag, Colonel?”
Hamza ignored him and focused on Ibrahim farther up the street. “A very nasty-looking piece of work has just appeared, black robes, armed to the teeth. He probably doesn’t kill anyone, just scares them to death.”
Wali raised his voice. “I’m not interested in that. I asked you what’s in the bag.”
Greg said, “What do you think? A special thank-you present for Ali Selim.”
For a moment, Wali sat there staring down at them, his face working, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not having it.”
He felt under the center of the instrument panel, pressed, and a flap fell down with a .38 snub-nosed Colt held by a clip. He turned, and Hamza tried to pull his Browning out of his holster. Wali fired wildly, hand shaking, missed Hamza but shot Miller in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet.
At the same moment, Greg Slay drew the .25 Belgian Leon from his ankle holster and shot Wali Hussein between the eyes, killing him instantly. He reached up, caught him by the belt, heaved him down, and rolled the body out under the machine gun to fall to the ground.
Hamza turned from examining Miller. “What now?”
“God knows what effect the sound of shooting will have on this place, but you’ve got the machine gun, and I’ll fly this damn thing, so be ready for anything,” Slay said.
Dillon, Holley, and Sara paused in the middle of the street at the sound of the shots, and ahead of them doors opened, and tribesmen, with AK-47s at the ready,