“You are an American soldier?”

  He looked up. A young man was crouched down in front of him, staring at him.

  He’s maybe seventeen or eighteen years old, and with good English. Thank Christ. At least I’ll be able to question him about this place.

  “Yeah, I am.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. “Abe Talley.”

  “I am Waled Assadi.”

  The teenager was in a shocking state, his face covered in cuts and bruises. His robe was dirty and stained with blood.

  “What are you in here for, Waled?”

  The youth shrugged. “We are in Yemen. It doesn’t matter what you have or haven’t done. In this country, you can be locked up for no reason at all. In my case, I dared to speak up against the government. For that, I expect to receive a sentence of ten years in jail.”

  “Ten years! Jesus Christ.”

  “We are used to it here. What about you?”

  “Something stupid, they accused me of killing a guy, a UN official.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  It was a simple question but fraught with danger.

  “It’s complicated, Waled. But it’s a crock of shit, a Somali put-up job.”

  “Somalis! So they want to deport you to that country?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, but it isn’t going to happen. I expect the Ambassador will get here soon enough. They’ll spring me before there’s any chance of shipping me back to Mogadishu.”

  “Mogadishu? So you’ve been there?”

  Talley nodded. “Yeah, I was there.”

  Waled smiled. “How do you think your friends will know where to look for you? If the Yemenis want you on an aircraft to Somalia, they can easily arrange it while your Ambassador is still trying to locate you. Do you think your Embassy knows where you are? This is the country of the secret police, my friend. When you come here, you disappear, usually for good.”

  Talley stared at him. “So how will you get out, if it’s so hard?”

  “I probably won’t,” Waled shrugged. His expression was resigned. Talley had seen it before; shortly before men went to their death. “Unless there is a revolution and I am freed. I live in the hope that it will happen soon. It sustains me, together with my faith.”

  Talley pushed any feelings of despair to the back of his mind. There were people out there on his side, and sooner or later, they would find him. Except that it may be too late, because the moment he set foot on Somali soil, he knew they’d execute him. He’d be shot down like a dog as payback for the crooks he’d killed, and for the damage he’d done to their illegal yet lucrative rackets.

  “Have you ever tried to escape?” he asked Waled.

  The youth chuckled. “No one escapes from the secret police. It is impossible.”

  “Is that right? You never had any idea how to get out of here?”

  “No, never.”

  “Okay. I’ll take a look around.”

  “It won’t take long,” Waled smiled.

  The cell was about ten by eight. There was nothing inside, only a stinking bucket stood on a slab of masonry for them to use as a lavatory. They would eat, sleep, and shit on the cold stone floor.

  “When does the guard come for the bucket?”

  “In the morning, usually, but sometimes they don’t come until the next day.”

  Talley shuddered.

  These people sure don’t put much value on sanitation.

  “And food, when does that arrive?”

  “The same, in the morning, sometimes not at all.”

  He prowled around the walls. There was a tiny barred window, high up in the wall opposite the door, to let in a little light. But there was no way out that way, unless you were a cat. The walls were roughly plastered with concrete and covered in graffiti. He wondered what they’d used for the writing.

  Blood, maybe. Shit, possibly. There’s little else.

  That left the door. It was made of heavy, solid steel, with a covered peephole. There was no handle or keyway on the inside, so there was no chance of getting it open.

  Think, Talley!

  “When they open the door, how many guards are there?”

  “Abe, you don’t stand a chance,” Waled almost shouted in exasperation. “One trustee prisoner brings the food or takes away the bucket, and two guards stand well back. It’s always the same. They keep their distance, one either side of the passage to prevent escapes. If they move you to another cell, the trustee prisoner brings in a set of manacles and fits them on you. Escape is not possible.”

  Escape is always possible.

  Talley knew that for sure. He also believed it, and belief was a powerful motivator. He sat down on the concrete floor to conserve his strength, and tried to relax his mind. If he allowed them to take him back to Somalia, he was dead. If he tried to make an escape, they might kill him, or they might not. It was a chance worth taking, his only chance.

  He sat and watched Waled who had knelt down on the filthy floor and begun his prayers. The guy seemed to be totally resigned to his fate. It was no wonder these Islamic shitholes seemed to go on forever. The people living in them had no concept of freedom; the kind of frontier spirit that tamed America in the early days, wrenching it from the Imperial stranglehold of the British Empire.

  What is it that’s so different with these people? He mentally shrugged.

  He had no idea and could spend a lifetime wondering. He cleared his mind. He’d have to make his move first thing in the morning when they came to the cell. Otherwise, it may be too late, and he’d be manacled and led to the aircraft that would take him to Mogadishu and to his death. He worked out the moves that were open to him. He could do it, but the timing would be critical. There was nothing heavy he could use in the cell as a weapon, sufficient to take down two armed soldiers. Except possibly one thing, the heavy masonry slab; the plinth on which the bucket rested. It would have to be enough. He calculated he’d be able to lift up the slab, and toss it far enough to hit one of the guards on the head. Then go for the other man while the first was recovering. He’d seize the man’s weapon, and once he had a gun in his hand, he would keep going until he was out of there. That was the extent of his plan. He had no idea what he would have to contend with outside the cell, and he’d have to play it by ear.

  So be it! If I’m going down, I’ll go down with a gun in my hand, fighting the enemy with every fiber of my being. As I’ve done throughout my career.

  He noticed his cellmate had ended his prayers and decided to take a chance.

  “Waled, I have a proposition for you.”

  “Yes, what is that?”

  “How would you like to get out of here?”

  The Yemeni laughed. “Sure, it’s no problem. Just open the door and hail a cab.”

  “I mean it, Waled. I’m breaking out in the morning. Are you in or not? Do you want to come with me, or spend the rest of your short life in here?”

  Waled hesitated. “Of course I don’t want to stay here, but escape is impossible.”

  “What’s the worst that could happen to you?”

  He shrugged. “I’d be killed.”

  “And if you stay here?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I will probably die. Very well, Abe Talley, I will join you. Tell me how you plan to do it.”

  It was a risk, bringing the young Yemeni prisoner in on his escape. But two men would be more effective than just one, and Waled could just make the difference. He went over the details, and then took him through a run-through of what he’d worked out they would do. Finally, when he was satisfied, they sat down on the cold concrete floor and waited for dawn, for the door to be unlocked. They spent the night in the dark. There was no electric light in the cell. Neither of them slept. Talley was keyed up; preparing himself mentally for the last-ditch effort he’d have to make to knock down the two guards.

  “Don’t forget,” he said to Waled for the twentieth time. “I’ll toss the slab at the guard’s head and then go for the second guard. Your job is to make sure the first guy is down and stays down, until I’ve got possession of a gun. I’ll take it from there. You just do as I tell you. We’ll have to wing it, as we don’t know yet what’ll confront us when that door opens.”

  “You’ve done this before?” he asked nervously. “I mean, fighting armed men, guns, stuff like that.”

  Talley nodded. “I’ve fired a few shots, yeah. Follow my lead, and we’ll soon be out of here.”

  I won’t mention the sixty-four dollar question. Will we go out of here on our own, or in a box? No, that was defeatist thinking. I’ll get us out of here, and this poor devil can get back to his family.

  The dark began to recede, and the first rays of dawn brought a little light into the cell. It would be soon. He put the stinking bucket to one side and grunted as he prized up the slab. They heard the sound of footsteps in the distance, then the noise of the next cell being unlocked, and the curses of the guards.

  “You ready?”

  “I am ready, Abe.”

  He heard the tremor in the boy’s voice.

  “Okay. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

  They heard the adjacent cell slam shut, and the key turned in the lock. Both men stood tensed, ready. It was time. Talley gripped the heavy slab and waited behind the door. The key turned in the lock, and it opened half way. A thin, emaciated prisoner entered the cell.

  “Shit bucket, it’s time to empty it.”

  Talley nodded at Waled, who grabbed him, gripped him behind the head and clamped his hand over his mouth to stop him shouting a warning. Then he leapt out through the open door, and into the corridor. He saw the guard on the left and the man on the right a little further away. It would be a close run thing. He hurled the heavy slab, and it sailed unerringly toward the guard. It struck him on the side of his head, and the man pitched to the ground. Behind him, he could hear the struggle as Waled fought to stop the trustee prisoner from sounding the alarm. Of course, the man would have worked hard to get his privileges inside the prison. It probably meant better food, and maybe some exercise time in the prison yard. He wouldn’t be able to conceive there was anything outside of the prison walls, and he fought to protect the little he had inside. Talley ignored it, and twisted around to hurl himself at the second guard. The man’s eyes were wide with shock, and he hurried to unsling his rifle. It wasn’t the short, light AKSU-74 the soldiers at the airport carried. This weapon was an older Kalashnikov AK-47; heavier and longer, it was not easy to maneuver in such a confined space. But before Talley could reach him, he managed to bring it to bear. The man pulled the trigger, and Talley waited for the heavy 7.62mm rounds to smash into his body. But the gun didn’t fire. In his panic, the guard had forgotten to unsafe the weapon. It was too late. Talley was already crashing into him. He wrenched the rifle from the man’s hands, breaking his trigger finger in the process as it caught in the trigger-guard. He reversed it to club down hard on the man’s head. The man fell, and Talley had no time to follow through. He turned around fast to finish off the first guard. He was in time to see Waled smash the slab of masonry on his head, repeatedly, until it shattered. The guard was unconscious, covered in chips of stone and dust.

  “It’s okay, my friend, he’s finished. We need to move fast. Where’s the trustee?”

  “He’s in the cell. I punched him hard, so he won’t make any trouble.”

  “Okay, we’ll drag these two guards inside, lock them in, and then we have to get out of here before anyone comes. You’d better pick up that other AK-47. We may need some firepower before too long.”

  They pulled the two guards inside the cell, and he noticed the trustee lying on the floor, stunned. It was too bad. The guy would have to take his chances. Waled picked up the second AK-47, and Talley helped himself to a huge bunch of keys from one of the guards. They emerged into the corridor and locked the cell door, listening for any sign they’d been discovered. There were only the normal prison noises, moans, groans, shouts, and wails of pain and despair. They hurried along the passage and came to another locked iron door. Talley found the key, opened it a fraction, and peered through a narrow crack. The prison yard lay ahead of them, a wide, open expanse of beaten earth. There were three guards in sight, walking toward different parts of the prison, but the real problem was the watchtower, positioned on top of the gatehouse. He was reminded of the compound in Mogadishu and wished at that moment for the services of a sniper. But they had what they had, and it would have to do. The key to getting out of the prison would be the watchtower, and it could prove to be a tough nut to crack. He could see a light machine gun mounted in the tower. From a distance, it looked like a Russian RPK, the modified AK-47. It was mounted on a bipod, clamped to the guard rail, and fed by a huge, 75 round drum magazine. The guard who lounged next to it didn’t look especially alert, but it would only need the sound of an alarm siren, a single shot, or even just a shout; and he could sweep the entire prison yard with a deadly blanket of fire. Talley looked around to the sides. There was a rampart running along the whole of the prison wall. Steps at intervals led up to it, allowing the guards to look down on the prisoners and come down into the yard to break up any disturbances. The rampart was empty, and he pointed it out to Waled.

  “We need to get up there without the guy in the watchtower seeing us.”

  “How do we do that?”

  Before he could answer, they heard the sound of an engine outside the gate, and the guard in the watchtower turned to observe the arrival of a truck that had stopped, waiting to be admitted.

  “We have to go now before he looks back! As soon as we’re outside, we go up to the rampart and then run straight for the watchtower.”

  “But…what if he sees us?”

  “Then we kill him.”

  Talley threw the door open wide, and they began their run, across the beaten earth and up the nearest stone staircase that led up to the rampart. They reached the top, and he estimated they had eighty meters to run before they reached the watchtower. He knew they’d attract attention by running, but they had to move fast while the guard’s attention was still diverted. They sprinted along the top of the wall, and Talley heard a shout from down below. He ignored it and ran on. A shot was fired, chipping stone off the wall next to him, and then another shot buzzed past his head; fifty meters to run. More shots cracked around them. He felt a tug at his sleeve as a bullet narrowly missed him, but he ran on. Ahead, the watchtower guard was leaning over and shouting something down to the new arrivals. So far, the engine noise had masked the sound of the shots, but it wouldn’t last; forty meters. Another shot cracked out, then two more, and finally the guard stood up and turned. His mouth opened in astonishment, and he took hold of the firing handles of his machine gun. Thirty meters, and Talley knew they were beaten. It wasn’t possible to outrun a machine gun, not for a man on foot. He raced on, and behind him he could hear Waled panting, almost out of breath as he tried to keep up.

  It’s as well he won’t realize we’re finished, Talley thought grimly. Better for him to go down in a second or two, cut to ribbons by a hail of machine gun bullets, than live for years in this hell of a prison.

  The gunner was taking aim now. Talley thought he could even see the whites of his knuckles as they tightened on the grips. Twenty meters; and he was staring into the huge, round black hole of the gun barrel, as if death itself was calling to him, grinning at him out of the invisible blackness. He tensed, waiting for the hail of gunfire that would destroy them before they got inside the final ten meters from the gun. More shots were whistling past from behind them, but so far they were poorly aimed. Prison guards were not known for their precision shooting skills. But machine gunners didn’t need any precision, and the hail of bullets would destroy everything in its path. But the storm of gunfire didn’t blow him apart, and he saw something strange going on. The machine gunner was still, frozen at his gun and he wasn’t moving. An officer stood on the ground shouting up at him, urging him to fire, but the man ignored him. And then he saw the reason. The man slowly keeled over, revealing a huge red stain on the back of his uniform.

  Blood! He’s been shot.

  Two more shots cracked out, but this time they were from outside the gate. A man ran up the ladder that led to the top of the watchtower and waved at Talley. Jerry Ostrowski, the Echo Six sniper.

  What the hell?

  But he ran on, and seconds later was helping Waled climb from the rampart and into the tower.

  “Jerry, what gives? I thought I was finished back there. How the hell did you get here?”

  The Pole pointed down to a truck that stood below, a battered British Land Rover. The next shock came when he saw the driver. Cate Walker. She gave him a smile and pointed. Vince DiMosta had climbed up on the rampart. He’d found a good stand and was sniping at any prison guards who tried to approach. Domenico Rovere was standing inside the gates, his SCAR assault rifle held to his shoulder, firing short bursts to hold the guards back. There were two troopers with him, Roy Reynolds, still limping from his wound, and Virgil Kane.

  How the hell they’d managed it, before they’d even had a chance to recover from the Mogadishu raid, was incredible. But they were here, come to free him, and tearing great gaps in the ranks of the Yemeni prison guards.

  “You’d better get down to the truck, Boss,” Jerry shouted, “before they call in reinforcements. We’ve brought along a couple of spare assault rifles and plenty of ammo. Who’s this?” he asked, pointing at Waled.

  “A friend. And thanks, Jerry. I guess we’ll be leaving pretty soon.”

  “You bet. Get down to the truck, Boss, before they put a bullet in your ass.”

  He grinned, but it was true, stray bullets were peppering around the watchtower as the Yemenis realized they were under attack.

  “Don’t leave it too long, Jerry,” he shouted back.

  The Polish sniper nodded as he fired two further well-aimed shots, sending another Yemeni to Paradise. Waled was kneeling on the wooden platform of the watchtower, gasping for breath and clutching his side in pain after the lung-bursting run. His eyes were wide with astonishment.