Blue Warrior

The Hilux raced up to the cargo door. Three men. All wore desert camouflage fatigues and indigo blue turbans that hid everything but their eyes. The Blue Men, Pearce reminded himself. He half expected robes and camels. One manned the machine gun mounted in back, one drove, and now one stood in the passenger seat. All Pearce could see of the standing man’s face were his dark eyes, sharp and suspicious. The other two stared daggers at him.

“You are Pearce?” the standing one said.

Pearce nodded. “Where’s Early?”

The man motioned with his hand. “Come. We don’t have much time.”

Pearce didn’t like the way this was setting up. “Who are you?”

“I am Mossa Ag Alla.”

“Chief of all the Imohar!” the gunner shouted, careful not to point the weapon at Pearce.

Mossa waved a hand to silence the younger man.

“You were supposed to bring Early,” Pearce said.

“Yes, Early. Hurry. There isn’t much time.”

“You know about the Army convoy heading your way?”

“Of course.”

If Early was badly wounded, it might make sense that they wouldn’t have brought him out here, just in case Pearce didn’t arrive.

Or it was a trap.

Pearce said to Judy, “Mind the fort. I’ll be back.”

“And miss the chance to meet the missus? No way.”

Pearce’s icy gaze said otherwise. He yanked a comms link out of his vest pocket and put it in his ear.

“Fine,” Judy said. “At least snap a photo for me.”

“I’ll stay in touch.”

“Be careful,” Judy said, and headed back for the cockpit.

Pearce grabbed the small aluminum attaché case, then jumped down into the rocky sand. He scrambled into the back of the Toyota, and Mossa gave the order to drive with a wave of his hand. The driver mashed the gas pedal and the Toyota leaned hard into a steep 180-degree turn, then sprung upright as it rocketed for the village.

* * *

The pickup skidded to a halt in front of the well. Mossa stepped out of the Toyota and motioned for Pearce to follow. The other two stayed behind on alert. Pearce kept his weapon slung over his shoulder and gripped the aluminum attaché case in one hand.

Mossa marched to a nearby house and stopped. Bullet holes scarred the mud-brick walls. He motioned to the doorway illuminated in early-morning light. It was already warming up.

“Your friend is in here.”

Pearce nodded and marched past Mossa into the little house. This close he could see the lines around the older man’s eyes. The Tuareg fighter was five feet ten and powerfully built, but still four inches shorter than Pearce.

Mike Early sat at a small table drinking hot tea. The kettle still steamed where it sat on the hot coals in the fireplace. His left arm was in a sling, and an olive-drab shemagh was draped around his neck, the U.S. Army’s version of a keffiyeh.

“Troy? What are you doing here?” He stood. A wide, toothy grin spread across his bearded face.

“Came to get you out of here.” Pearce crossed to Early and bear-hugged his old friend. “Heard you were wounded and needed an evac.”

Early held up his slinged arm. “This? I’ve had cases of clap worse than this. It’s just a sprain.”

“That’s not what we were told.”

“Don’t blame him. I made the call.” The woman’s heavy Italian accent gave her away.

Pearce turned around. Cella stood in the doorway. He’d steeled himself for the moment but still nearly lost it. It had been years since he’d seen her. She was clearly exhausted and undernourished, but even in her faded camouflage she was stunning.

“Why?” Pearce asked. His voice was even. “And why me?”

She wore her hair pulled into a ponytail, revealing the proud cheekbones and angular jaw he remembered so vividly. Her blue eyes bored into his. “I knew you would come for your friend.” She stepped closer. At six feet even, she was nearly as tall as he was. A ray of golden sunlight struck her face, softening it. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Pearce said. He had a million questions, but now was not the time.

“You two know each other?” Early asked.

One of the corners of Cella’s mouth tugged slightly. Almost a smile. “Yes, we know each other.”

“I’ll be damned. It’s a small world.”

“And getting smaller. There’s a convoy on the way.” Pearce motioned to Early. “We need to haul ass.”

“Me? I’m not going anywhere,” Mike said. “I’ve got a job to do.”

“What job?”

Early nodded at Cella. “Her. I’m her security.”

Cella rolled her eyes. “My father’s watchdog.”

“It’s complicated. Like an arranged marriage,” Early said.

“So what am I doing here?” Pearce asked. He glanced at Cella. “I take it you want a lift?”

“Not for me.”

Pearce nodded at Mossa. “Him?”

“No,” he said. “My place is here, with my people.”

Cella brushed past Pearce, close enough that he could smell the sweat in her hair. A memory flooded him. He pushed it away. She stooped a little as she entered a low doorway toward another room. Pearce followed.

Cella pointed toward a bed. A young girl lay on it. Motionless. Eyes closed.

“I need you to take her.”

“A body?”

“Asleep. I gave her a sedative for the journey.”

“Who is she?” Pearce asked.