Crawling forward, Christopher drove alongside the row of hillocks until they ended. He then parked in the shelter of the last kopje, camouflaged against its rocky flank.

Only open flat ground lay ahead.

“Now we wait,” Christopher said.

“For what?” Tucker asked.

“For a rabbit to run.”

8:22 P.M.

Tucker held the binoculars fixed to his face. He had switched places with Anya, taking the passenger seat, so that he had a sweeping view of the open land ahead. Through the scope, he picked out the blasted wreckage of unlucky smugglers and guerrillas. Most were half buried in the roll of the windswept dunes.

Then off to the northwest, he caught a wink in the distance.

He stiffened. “Movement,” he whispered.

Christopher leaned next to him, also using binoculars. “What do you see?”

“Just a glint of something—moonlight on glass, maybe.”

They waited tensely. Christopher had finally revealed his plan a few minutes ago. Tucker no longer believed the young man had held off telling him as some sort of insurance plan against being abandoned. He had kept silent because his plan was pure insanity.

But they were committed now.

No turning back.

“I see it,” Christopher said. “It is definitely a vehicle—a pickup truck. And he’s gaining speed. Here, Tucker, this is our rabbit.”

Run, little rabbit, run . . .

Through his binoculars, Tucker watched the pickup careen at breakneck speeds, heading toward South Africa. No wonder Christopher had picked an area regularly frequented by guerrillas. For his plan to work, they needed traffic.

Illegal traffic, in this case.

“If the spotters are in the area,” Christopher warned, “it won’t be long now.”

The rebel truck continued to sprint, trying to reach the highway on the South African side. Tucker no longer needed his binoculars to track its zigzagging race through the dunes.

It had covered a mile when Christopher whispered, “There, to the south!”

Lights blinked in the sky. A Namibian spotter plane streaked like a hunting hawk across the foothills on the far side, going after the fleeing rabbit. It dove, picking up speed, drawn by the truck’s dust plume. Soon the plane was flying seventy yards off the desert floor. On its current course, it would sweep past their kopje, where they hid.

“Time to get ready,” Christopher whispered. “Buckle up and hold on.”

“This is madness!” Bukolov barked.

“Be quiet, Abram!” Anya ordered.

“Any moment now . . .” Tucker mumbled.

Suddenly the plane streaked past their position and was gone.

Christopher shifted into gear and slammed the accelerator. The Rover lurched forward and began bumping over the terrain.

“Tucker, keep a close eye on that plane. If they finish off that other truck too quickly, we might still draw the spotter’s attention.”

“Got it.” He twisted around in his seat, climbed out the open passenger window, and rested his butt on the sill. With one hand clutching the roof rack, Tucker watched the pickup truck’s progress.

“Doesn’t look like he’s going to make it!” he called out.

“They rarely do! Hold on tight!”

The Rover picked up speed, slewing around obstacles, bouncing over rock outcroppings, and dipping into dune troughs. The cooling desert wind whipped through Tucker’s hair. His heart pounded with the exhilaration.

“How far to the border now?” he shouted.

“One mile. Ninety seconds.”

Tucker watched the plane suddenly bank right, running parallel now to the racing truck.

“Almost there!” Christopher called.

Fire arched from the plane’s doorway and streamed toward the truck. The aircraft’s minigun poured a hundred rounds per second into its target, tearing the vehicle apart in an incendiary display that lit the black desert.

The engagement quickly ended.

Smoke and flames swirled from the wreckage.

Above, the plane banked in a circle over the ruins. As it turned, their dust trail would surely be spotted.

“He’s coming about,” Tucker called.

He turned forward to see a waist-high stone cairn flash by the right bumper of the Rover. Any closer and it would have knocked Tucker from his perch.

“Border marker!” Christopher called. “We’re across! Welcome to Namibia!”

Tucker ducked back inside and buckled up.

From the backseat, Kane crowded forward and licked his face.

“Are we safe?” Anya asked.

“We’re in Namibia,” Christopher replied. “So no.”

Bukolov leaned forward, red-faced and apoplectic. “For God’s sake! Are you two trying to get me killed? Actually trying?”

Tucker glanced back. “No, Doctor, but the day’s not over yet.”

33

March 20, 10:11 P.M.

Borderlands of Namibia

“Should be just over that next dune,” Tucker said.

He had a map on his lap and his GPS unit in hand.

“What are we looking for?” Anya asked, leaning forward between the two front seats, careful of her cast.

After their flight across the border, Christopher kept the Rover at a cautious pace, proceeding overland, using the terrain to cover as much of their movement as possible.

“There should be a paved road,” Tucker replied. “One heading west into the mountains.”

“Is that wise?” she asked. “Won’t there be traffic?”

“Perhaps, but a vehicle with South African plates in Namibia isn’t unusual. As long as we don’t attract attention to ourselves, the odds are in our favor.”

Christopher glanced over to her. “And on the road, we’re less likely to encounter guerrillas or bandits.”

“That is, until we reach the mountain trails,” Tucker added. “Once we’re off the paved roads and climbing into the badlands, then all bets are off.”

With his headlamps still dowsed, Christopher picked his way over the last of the dunes. A blacktop road appeared ahead, cutting straight across the sands. They waited a minute, making sure no traffic was in sight, then bumped over the shoulder and out onto the smooth pavement.

Christopher flipped on his lights and headed west.

Despite its remote location, the road was well maintained and well marked but completely devoid of traffic. For the next twenty-five miles, as the road wound higher into the mountain’s foothills, they saw not a single vehicle, person, or sign of civilization.

The road finally ended at a T-junction. Christopher brought the Rover to a stop. In the backseat, Bukolov was snoring loudly. Anya had also fallen asleep, curled in the fetal position against the door.

“She is lovely,” Christopher said. “Is she your woman?”

“No.”

“I see. But you fancy each other, yes?”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “It’s complicated. Mind your business.”

Still, he considered Christopher’s words. Anya certainly was attractive, but he hadn’t given much thought to any sort of relationship with her. She would need a friend once she reached America, and he would be that for her, but beyond that . . . only time would tell. He felt pity for her, felt protective of her, but those feelings might not be the healthiest way to start a romance. And, more important, this was the wrong place and time to think about any of it.

Especially in guerrilla-infested Namibia.

Tucker checked their GPS coordinates against the map. “We’re on track,” he said. “We should turn right here, go a quarter mile, then turn northwest onto a dirt trail.”

“And then how far to our destination?”

“Eighteen miles.”

At least he hoped so. If his bearing and range measurements were off by even a fraction of a degree, the cave could be miles from where he thought it was. Plus even if his calculations were accurate, the landmark they needed to find—the Boar’s Head—could have been obliterated by time and erosion. He felt a flicker of panicky despair. Tucker tried to shove it down.