“Wa alaykum assalam,” Mohammad responded.
“Do you know why you’ve been brought here?”
“No,” Mohammad replied too quickly. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Omar brandished a Glock 19 and set it on the table. It was an Austrian weapon that was used by the American Special Forces. He had taken it as a trophy of their attack, finding it in the rubble after the infidels had withdrawn two years ago. Though the cost had been great, the operation had caused the base to close and the remaining Americans to leave the city. The pistol was his reminder of both the victory as well as the consequences suffered by a foreign presence in their land.
At seeing the pistol, Mohammad’s eyes widened. “Please” was all the fisherman said.
“Please what?” Omar quipped. “Please don’t kill me for not reporting the Westerners I saw on our shores this morning?” Mohammadcowered and said nothing. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
“I don’t know who they were,” Mohammad replied, his hands clasped together. “I did not get a good look or hear anything.”
“Did you see weapons?” Omar couldn’t be certain, but he believed the fisherman was telling the truth.
“No. I swear. Just men and bags.”
Omar pondered the response. It didn’t mean anything. The man’s old eyes could have missed critical details. “How many?”
“Four… or five. I’m… not sure.”
“And where did they go?” Mohammad shrank back again. Omar placed his hand on the pistol. “You will tell me who met them.”
“Amir.” He hung his head in shame. “Into Amir’s van.”
“And you saw Amir with them?” Mohammad feebly nodded. Omar looked over Mohammad’s shoulder to one of his men.
“Bring me the other fisherman.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Al Mahrah Governorate, Yemen
Fucking hell.”
Nate lightly applied the brakes. They had been driving for nearly an hour up the N5 highway and the going had been fairly easy so far, even though the road had been swept over by the desert in some spots. They had made good time and encountered almost no other vehicles, the only impediment to their travel materializing ahead of them in the form of a checkpoint.
“Military or bad guys?” Tim asked.
He was riding shotgun, with Ana stuffed between them. Shane and Wally were in the truck behind them, following at a distance of a hundred meters. As the lead truck slowed and the trailing vehicle came around the corner, they accelerated to catch up.
“Can’t tell. If it’s military, we’ll try and talk our way out. Otherwise, we’ll stick with the plan.”
They had discussed contingencies back on the ship, and rehashed them before setting out from the exchange. There was a standard operating procedure, or SOP, that they had followed back on the team whenrolling around in dangerous territory in low-visibility vehicles. It had worked effectively for years and they saw no reason to change it now.
“Doesn’t look military,” Nate said, as Ana threw the niqab over her head next to him. “Get ready.”
As the vehicle slowed, Nate tightened theshemagharound his head, attempting to obscure as much of his face as possible. Their cover was only skin deep, and they would be instantly recognized as not being from the region regardless of how good his Arabic was. Nate could more easily get by in the Mediterranean parts of the Middle East, but southern Arabia was a different story.
There were three men at the checkpoint, one standing in the middle of the road blocking their path, and two standing off it to the left. All were armed with rifles. As their truck rolled to a stop, Tim readied his AK-47 and held it just below the door while Nate flicked off the Makarov’s safety.
The man in the road pointed his rifle straight at the windshield. One of the men on the side did the same, while the third walked up to the driver’s-side door. They saw Ana in the niqab in the center and relaxed slightly. Nate already had the window down, ready to go.
“Marhaban,” the man said.Welcome.
“Marhaban,” Nate muffled in reply.
“Where are you coming from?” the man asked in Arabic.
