The Genesis Plague (2010)

said Mack is getting his information from the Israelis,’ Meat reminded him.
    Twenty minutes ago, the satellite trace Jason had called in to Mack had pinpointed the square paint marker he’d scrawled on the hood of the truck Staff Sergeant Richards used to spirit Al-Zahrani away from the camp. The grid provided by Israeli Intelligence led them here, to a desolate region twenty-four kilometres south of Irbil, and less than a twenty-kilometre drive from the downed Blackhawk. The perfectly flat terrain provided long-range visibility over the wheat fields extending out in every direction. An occasional ramshackle structure poked up into the landscape.
    But no sign of the hijacked pickup truck.
    ‘I don’t trust Israelis, especially Mossad,’ Meat said.
    ‘Come on Meat, there’s no reason to believe the information isn’t credible.’
    ‘Sure there is: no truck. That’s good enough reason for me.’ Meat groaned in frustration and punched the dashboard. ‘Shit, Google. We can’t go losing these Al-Qaeda fucks now! Not after what they’ve done!’
    Jason felt equally frustrated. Losing Jam and Camel was a crushing defeat. He’d called Camp Eagle’s Nest and requested a rescue patrol to be dispatched to the crash site.
    ‘They must be on the move again,’ Jason guessed. ‘I’ll have Mack request another—’
    ‘Whoa … hang on,’ Meat said, craning his head to see something out the side window.
    ‘What is it?’
    Meat waved his hand as if he was greeting someone. ‘Stop the truck.’
    ‘What the hell are you doing?’
    ‘See that shit box over there?’ he said, pointing out the window to a two-storey house constructed from cinderblocks, which glowed in milky moonlight.
    ‘What about it?’
    Meat grinned deviously. ‘Seems someone is expecting us … or should I say their expecting the guys that should be riding in this truck.’
    Jason stopped the truck and barely glimpsed an Arab man passing beneath the house’s bright porch light and disappearing around the building. ‘Who? That farmer?’
    ‘That’s no farmer. The guy was strapping an AK-47. Back it up. We’re going in.’
    *
    ‘How do propose we do this?’ Meat asked Jason, flipping the safety off his Glock and cocking its slide bolt.
    ‘Fast,’ Jason simply replied. He rolled to a stop and let the truck idle twenty metres from the house. There appeared to be no one outside, but in the second-storey window, he saw two silhouettes moving like shadow puppets behind drawn shades.
    ‘You think they brought Al-Zahrani here?’ Meat asked. ‘This place is a dump.’
    ‘Exactly. It’s perfect.’
    Meat’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh, hey … look over there.’ He pointed to a crude overhang attached to the side of the house. ‘There she is.’
    Only a corner of the scratched-up bumper and a sliver of the sky-blue tailgate stuck out from beneath the camouflage netting that covered the stolen pickup. ‘Good eye,’ Jason said.
    ‘Get ready. There’s our host,’ Meat said, pointing with his chin to the side door. The Arab leaned out from the doorframe into the porch light. The AK-47 was slung over his right shoulder. He was moving his head side to side, trying to see inside the truck, but the greasy windshield was casting nasty reflections.
    Meat grabbed for the door handle, but Jason gripped his arm. ‘Hold on. He can’t see us through the glare.’ Jason eased the truck forward and put it in park five metres from the house. ‘Sit tight. We’ll let him come to us.’
    Looking deeply concerned, the Arab waved to them again in a hurrying motion.
    ‘Get your knife out, then wave him over to your side. Let’s see if he bites.’ Jason reached down and grabbed the AK-47 he’d stripped from the dead Al-Qaeda photographer.
    Meat set down the Glock and unsnapped a K-bar knife from a sheath clipped to his belt. Then he stuck his arm out the window and made a summoning gesture.
    The Arab scowled, didn’t budge. He looked back into the house, as if someone was beckoning him.
    ‘ Ta’ al huna !’ Meat yelled in Arabic, and motioned again with more urgency. ‘Come on over here, stupid,’ he grumbled.
    Finally the man broke away from the house and made his way to the truck with hands spread in confusion.
    ‘Put him down nice and quiet,’ Jason instructed.
    ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be tender.’
    As the Arab drew close, Meat turned from view, pretending to get something from behind the seat.
    The Arab cornered the truck’s front