Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (31 page)

“They’re
gone,” whispered Niner from the other side of the window frame.

Acton
walked over to Niner, Reese at his side. “Who would these guys contact to
demand ransom?”

“My
guess is they’ve sent somebody to the American embassy in Khartoum,” said
Reese. “They’re probably assuming we’re all Americans so they’d want to talk to
somebody at the embassy and demand payment in exchange for our release.”

“How
much?” asked the Brit.

“Probably
ten or twenty million, then they’ll negotiate rapidly down.”

“They
better,” muttered the Brit. “I’ve got about sixty quid in the bank, and my
wife’s probably already earmarked that for something more important than me.”

“Laura
will cover whatever it takes,” said Acton. “Assuming she’s brought into the loop.”

“Wangari
should be in Rome with her.
He’ll
definitely be in the loop,” said
Reese.

Niner
looked at her and frowned. “We need to tone you down and fast.”

“What do
you mean?”

“With
all due respect, ma’am, you’re too hot,” replied Niner, causing Reese to blush.
“We need you to stand out a lot less than you do now, otherwise one of the
young gentlemen holding us might take a liking to you.”

Reese
blanched, her hand reaching out for Acton’s arm and closing around it like a
vice as she steadied herself.

“Suggestions?”
asked Acton, taking over for Reese.

Lee Fang
stepped over, removing her jacket, revealing a tight fitting black undershirt.
Her small chest size compared to Reese would definitely not attract as much
attention, but the exposure of that much skin might.

Acton
shook his head. “No, you’re at risk as well.”

Lee Fang
frowned. “I assure you I can take care of myself.”

“I have
no doubt you could one on one, hell, probably five on one. But there’s at least
a dozen of them, and they all have guns.”

Lee nodded
then put her jacket back on as the surviving French observer came over with his
own jacket. He was small framed, slight, and when Reese slipped into the
jacket, she smiled, it almost looking like a natural fit.

Lee
pointed at the exposed neck. “You should button up your shirt and zip up the
jacket. The less skin the better.” She pointed at Reese’s skirt. It’s too bad
we don’t have pants for you.”

One of
the Italians threw his shirt over. “Tie this around your waist.”

Reese
smiled thankfully, wrapping the shirt around her and tying off the sleeves.

“My
bigger concern is her hair,” said Niner. “She’s blonde in a brown and black world.”

Reese
reached up and tied her hair back with a tie she had removed from around her
wrist. It helped, but not enough.

“We need
a head scarf,” said Acton. “Laura wears them all the time when she’s on Middle
Eastern digs. He looked about and his eyes settled on his blanket.

“She’ll
die from heat exhaustion if she wears that,” said Lee, Reese nodding in
concurrence. Lee removed her jacket again then removed her undershirt, leaving
nothing but a sport bra and ripped abs to see as the room spun to give her
privacy. She tossed the undershirt to Reese as she put her jacket back on,
zipping it up.

Reese
quickly fashioned a headdress out of it that covered her blonde locks, and with
the shirt being plain black, it muted her beauty significantly. Lee dropped to
the earthen floor, scraping some of the dirt up with her fingers, then lightly
smeared it over Reese’s face, neck, hands and exposed legs.

“Hopefully
they won’t find a dirty woman appealing,” explained Lee as she finished up,
spreading the remainder on her own exposed skin.

Acton
wasn’t sure, but being accustomed to seeing Laura covered in mud, dirt and
sweat at dig sites, and finding her still irresistible, had him wondering if
Lee had just made them both more attractive. Reese turned to look at him.

“What do
you think?” she asked, twirling.

“Ugly as
sin,” he said, deadpan followed quickly with a wink.

“Perfect.”

The door
flew open and a big pot of rice was carried into the center of the room along
with a bunch of flat bread and a bucket of water of questionable purity. The
door was about to be closed when Acton stepped forward.

“Some of
us need to go to the bathroom,” he said, the Brit repeating it in Arabic.

The man
nodded and left, returning a few minutes later with an empty bucket. He pointed
at it. “You go there!”

Acton
thought better of reminding the man that there were women present, and simply
kept his mouth shut. He turned to the group. “I suggest we eat as much as we
can, ration the water, and designate one corner the latrine. Perhaps we can
figure out a way to hang some of the blankets for privacy.”

Everyone
nodded and the Frenchman took up position by the food, quickly counting out the
flatbreads. “There’s enough here for everyone to have at least one,” he said.
He found a ladle at the bottom of the bucket of water and used it to pour some
water on his hands, washing them as best he could, then wiping them on his
relatively clean shirt. “If no one minds, I’ll serve?”

There
were no objections and he soon began handing out the bread with a fistful of
rice in the center. Within minutes they were all eating, the water bucket being
handed around. Acton finished all he could eat and turned his attention to the
ceiling. It was a simple design, corrugated steel nailed into wood framing, the
entire guts exposed.

Leaving
plenty of places to hang blankets from.

He
pointed to one corner. “I suggest we make our latrine there. We can hang some
blankets from the ceiling, and when needed, just empty it out the window. If
they don’t like it, they’ll get the hint quick enough to give us a better
option.” He looked at Niner. “What’s outside the window?”

“Just a
back alleyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone dumps their shit out there.”

“Good.
Wanna give me a hand?”

Niner
nodded. “It’s a shit job, but someone has to do it.”

Overlooking Hamashkoraib, Sudan

Dawson chowed down on another handful of Cap’n Crunch, took a swig
of water, then popped a chunk of Jack Link’s Sweet & Hot Beef Jerky into
his mouth, chewing on one of his favorite high-protein snacks. The back of
Camel Man’s van had turned into a treasure trove of Western decadence from food
to electronics. Pretty much everything except a working phone.

Though
he did find a windup emergency charger and cable.

He had
spent the better part of the morning taking a few minutes here and there to
charge the phone he had found and it was now at a full charge. He had
transferred the photos to a laptop he had found in the van—a brand new Dell
XPS—and had used the built-in software to zoom in on the shots from last night.
Using the light of day and the laptop, he had pinpointed the exact location of
the celebrations and, using a telephoto lens adapter for the phone—one of those
simple ones that just stuck on the phone—he had set up camp, sitting on the
floor of the opened van, videotaping the houses in that area then playing the
video back on the laptop for the larger screen.

Armed
men were circling one house in groups of two, and he spotted three jeeps that
looked damned familiar parked in a nearby alley. He had counted at least twelve
distinct guards, but hadn’t seen any of the hostages. He had no way of knowing
for certain whether or not the hostages were even there, but why guard the
building if they weren’t? There were much more impressive houses in the city
that he could see from his vantage point, suggesting anyone worth protecting
would be in a finer abode than the hovel he was staking out.

He
dragged his finger along the touchpad, backing up the video. He hit play again
and saw a bucket being emptied out one of the windows of the house being
guarded, arms briefly visible. Watching the same few seconds over and over, he
couldn’t tell if it was his mind playing tricks on him, wishful thinking, or
whether what he thought he was seeing was real, but it appeared to him that the
hands were white.

He
pushed the notebook away in frustration.

There’s
no way to know from this distance.

He
picked up the phone again and held it up, trying to get a steady shot of the
house.

And
cursed as he dropped the phone out of sight, too late.

Hamashkoraib, Sudan

Samir stretched hard, it having been a late night of celebration. As
he surveyed the surroundings he froze, his eyes catching sight of something
shiny on the surrounding hillside.
We’re being watched!
His heart leapt
into his throat and he immediately spun to warn the others, then stopped.

He took
another look but the reflection was gone. If it was binoculars like he was
thinking, then they might be aware he saw them. He leaned against the wall,
fishing some khat out of his pocket and slowly began to chew. He had his head
turned slightly away from the hillside, but his eyes never budged from their careful
watch.

And
still they saw nothing.

No
reflections, no puffs of dust, no movement.

Nothing.

Which
meant either there had been nothing there, or there was, and they knew they had
been made.

And that
meant checking it out would be dangerous.

He
grinned.

Inwardly.

What
better way to possibly eliminate some of my “partners”?

He
turned and walked around to the front of the house, the hill now at his back,
and entered. “Jalal! Abdul!” he shouted, “Come out front!”

He
stepped back outside and waited for the two men, normally his rivals, whom he
had been forced to partner with in this venture.

“What is
it?” asked Jalal as he stepped outside, squinting, his eyes already red from a
constant khat habit and too much alcohol the night before. Abdul didn’t look
much better, though he never partook in the drinking, his strict adherence to
his Muslim faith forbidding it. Abdul had personally spoken to all of the
hostages to make sure none were Muslim and in need of being set free. None
were, thankfully, otherwise their payout might be less, and with three shares
now involved, things were tight enough without giving away hostages for free.

“I think
someone is watching us from the hillside,” said Samir, motioning with his chin
toward the hill behind the house.

Abdul
rounded the corner, looking up at the hill. “What makes you say that?”

“Don’t
make it so obvious, you fool!” cried Samir.

Abdul
spun on his heel and stormed toward Samir, anger etched across his face, his
eyes narrowed in hatred. “How dare you call me a fool!”

Jalal
stepped between the two nonchalantly, holding up a bottle of water to his lips
and taking a long, drawn out swig, his arm raised high to block Samir’s view of
Abdul, and Abdul’s of him. It gave Samir an opportunity to defuse the
situation—the last thing he wanted was a confrontation here. He wanted it out
on the hillside where there’d be no witnesses.

“I’m
going to go check it out,” he said, his voice calm. “I need more men, just in
case. Which one of you will come with me?”

Jalal
finished his drink. “Perhaps I should—”

“No!”
interrupted Abdul. “I’ll go.” He yelled for his men to bring their vehicle
around and Samir did the same, moments later the two vehicles arriving, Abit at
the wheel of his Toyota.

“Where
to?”

“The
back road, up the hill. I saw something.”

Abit
nodded, flooring the gas as the two vehicles raced for the outskirts of town. Samir
glanced back and could see Abdul’s truck right on their tail, none too happy to
be in the rear.

Samir
leaned forward so no one would see his lips move. “Miss a shift.”