Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [245]
He got out, locked the door, then walked out of the trees to the edge of the road. He looked right. A half-mile down the road a pair of headlights appeared around a corner. Ibrahim’s blue Volkswagen Fox slowed beside Hadi, its brakes squealing slightly.
“No trouble?” Ibrahim asked.
“None.”
Hadi climbed into the backseat. Fa’ad sat beside him, Ahmed in the front passenger seat. As part of their exfiltration plan, Fa’ad and Ahmed had parked their cars on back roads to the southeast and northeast of the refinery, where they were picked up by Ibrahim. If for some reason the group became separated, they would rendezvous at one of these cars and make their way back to the coast.
Ahmed handed Hadi a pistol, a 9-millimeter Glock 17 equipped with a noise suppressor. “The truck is there,” Hadi said. “I couldn’t be sure, but I think I saw two figures sitting in it.”
“Good. Ahmed, you will do it.”
Headlights off, Ibrahim put the car in gear and drove on, retracing Hadi’s inbound route. Fifty yards from the pipeline, he stopped the car. Ahmed climbed out, crossed behind the car, and walked into the trees. They sat in silence, Ibrahim keeping track of the time on his watch. After two minutes, he turned on the headlights and started out again. “Down in the back,” he told them. Hadi and Fa’ad hunched down below the windows. As the car drew even with the pickup truck, Ibrahim slowed the car and got out. He had a map in his right hand.
“Excuse me,” he called in Portuguese, as he walked toward the truck. “I’m lost. Can you give me directions back to Paulinia?”
No one responded.
“Excuse me, I need help. Can you—”
A hand appeared out of the driver’s-side window and waved him forward. Ibrahim walked up to the window. The decal on the door said PETROBRAS SECURITY. “I think I missed a turn somewhere. How far away is Paulinia?”
“Not far,” said the guard. “Follow this road west until it runs into the highway, then turn left.”
Through the truck’s open passenger window, Ibrahim could see Ahmed’s outline emerge from the trees and start toward the truck.
Ibrahim asked, “How far is it?”
Before the driver could answer, Ibrahim took a step back. The first muffled shot went into the temple of the passenger-side guard; the second went into the neck of the driver, who slumped sideways. The noise suppressor, made from steel soup cans and fiberglass insulation, had worked well. The shots had been no louder than a muted hand-clap.
“One more each,” Ibrahim ordered.
Ahmed fired another round into the first guard. He then extended the gun into the cab, took aim, and fired a round into the driver’s ear. Ibrahim turned and signaled to the Volkswagen. Hadi climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the car into the clearing. Ibrahim and Ahmed already had the guards’ bodies out of the truck.
“Key ring,” Ahmed said, and tossed it to Ibrahim.
They started dragging the bodies toward the tree line. Hadi pulled out a pair of white towels he’d taken from his hotel, tossed one to Fa’ad, and together they wiped down the cab. The Glock’s soft-nosed hollow-points had disintegrated inside the guards’ skulls, leaving no exit wounds, so there was more blood than brain matter. Once done, Hadi tossed his towel to Fa’ad, who jogged into the trees and tossed them away.
Ibrahim returned to the clearing, unlocked the cattle gate, then tossed the key ring to Hadi. He and Fa’ad got in and backed the truck through the gate, followed by Ibrahim and Ahmed in