Free Deployed by Mel Odom Page B

considered it worthwhile to attack his enemy directly, but it would mean having a much larger force than he presently had. It was one thing to take an area; it was another to hold it. His father had always survived by striking, taking what he wanted, and fading back into the countryside. Daud intended to follow the same plan until his group grew, which would foster new problems. Feeding all of them while on the move would be difficult.
    Reaching into his military chest pack, Daud took out a set of binoculars he’d gotten on the black market and focused the lenses on the campsite. With the way various armies—the Russians, the French, the Ethiopians, the British, and the Americans—had come to Somalia to shore up one government after another, getting military surplus was easy. Just costly.
    A dozen men sat around the campfire in folding lawn chairs. They kept assault rifles next to them and wore pistols and knives. Many of them chewed khat , a native plant that created a state of euphoria. The drug was easier to get than alcohol and wasn’t forbidden by Islam. Khat was also being exported to Scandinavia, and the profits funneled back into the pockets of Muslim terrorist groups.
    Beyond the men, two jeeps and two four-wheel-drive pickups sat parked in the shadows surrounding the hollow that protected the group from the wind. The scent of braised lamb rode the wind, mixed with herbs. Evidently the men had dined well and were settling in for the night.
    That suited Daud. Silently, he put away the binocularsand rose into a crouch, holding the rifle in both hands as he advanced. Afrah and the four other men with them—three of them men who had accompanied Daud’s father years ago—rose like dark ghosts and followed.
    Daud kept putting one foot in front of the other. The al-Shabaab had posted no guards, no lookouts, obviously complacent in their hiding place. A local herdsman who had ventured into Mogadishu looking for food for his family had brought news of Gold Tooth, whose real name was Liban. The herdsman had contacted one of the men Afrah had sent out to find information about the al-Shabaab contingent. In return, the herdsman had received food for his family.
    Life was sold cheaply in Mogadishu even after the al-Shabaab had been driven from most of the city.
    Fifteen feet out, one of the men got up and wandered outside the firelight, probably to heed nature. Daud froze, but the man saw someone in the brush anyway.
    “Look out, my brothers! Look out!” The man scrambled to yank the rifle from over his shoulder and find cover.
    Daud stood and fired at once. His bullets caught the man and drove him backward into the flames where his hair caught on fire. The foul odor of burned hair and cooked flesh filled the campsite. The man didn’t move and didn’t make a sound as he burned.
    The al-Shabaab terrorists grabbed their weapons, but they were blinded from looking into the campfire and addled by the khat . They fired long bursts that cut through the trees over Daud’s head. Daud stayed low and fired at the targetsthat presented themselves. The rifle recoiled against his shoulder again and again. He kept moving forward, watching as the bodies of the al-Shabaab hit the ground.
    One of the terrorists turned and fled into the trees. Light glinted at the man’s mouth when he shot a frightened glance over his shoulder.
    Gold Tooth. Liban.
    Daud’s head ached from where Afrah had put in eight stitches to close a cut on his temple. The wound still threatened infection. Other cuts inside his mouth made eating an unpleasant chore, and two of his teeth were loose.
    “Afrah.”
    The big man glanced at Daud.
    “Secure the camp. Kill them all.”
    Afrah nodded and surged forward.
    Dropping his rifle, Daud took up pursuit of Liban and drew the Tokarev pistol from the holster at his hip. The Russian-made pistol wasn’t as accurate as its American and British counterparts, but it would serve. He ran, and the effort amplified the