“I’m looking,” said Hera.

“Maybe they’re up around on the other side.”

Hera saw the two trucks at the edge of the very small parade and assembly area off to her left.

“Maybe they’re in the trucks,” she suggested. “They can see the pen from there.”

“Could be.”

“You watch the truck,” she told Flash. “I’ll go cut the fence to the prisoners’ pen.”

“Go,” said Flash, trotting forward through the mud.

The rain kept coming harder. Flash felt it soaking into the pores of his skin, covering his whole body with a slimy film of water and sweat.

As annoying as it was, the rain was making their job considerably easier. Visibility was cut down for the defenders, and the foul weather lessened the chance of being spotted by a random patrol or a casual cigarette smoker.

Flash slipped a grenade round into his rifle’s attached launcher, ready to take out the truck quickly if necessary.

Danny had told him only to fire if the guards presented a clear danger—if they came to investigate or started shooting. This wasn’t only because he wanted to keep the casualties down. They were outnumbered, and the only way to even the odds was to use trickery. When Boston and Nuri attacked, so the plan went, the defenders’ attention would be drawn toward the front of the camp. Escaping out the back with the prisoners would be easy.

While Flash was watching the truck and the rest of the compound, Hera had slipped around the corner of the prisoners’ area. The rain had encouraged the prisoners to clump together at the southeast side of the pen, seeking shelter under a small tarp augmented by a collection of small blankets and other rags. They were all soaked, the water leaking in a constant drip on the prisoners below.

Hera began cutting the fence. She knew Farsi, but Danny thought it might make Tarid more suspicious and told her not to use it. He wanted to make it appear that they had come to free all of the prisoners. So she used Arabic after she got into the pen and started waking the prisoners.

“Time to go,” she said, first in a whisper, then more loudly. “Be quiet. The way is this way.”

The first man was so battered by his wounds that he simply stared at her. The one next to him was dead.

“Come on,” said Hera, shaking the third. She raised her voice. “Let’s go.”

The man turned his head toward her.

“What sort of devil are you?”

“Mr. Kirk sent us. Go through the fence. Stay low to the ground so they don’t see you. Go!”

The man raised his head, barely able to make her out even though it was raining. As Hera grabbed him to pull him upward, the ground heaved with an explosion, the night turning white. Two of the Catbirds had just struck the minefield in front of the machine-gun posts.

DANNY AND MCGOWAN REACHED THE SAFE AREA BEHIND the minefield just as the Catbirds exploded.

“Take out the minefield,” Danny told McGowan, pushing him off his back. “I’ll hold the prisoners back.”

McGowan pulled off his rucksack and pulled out what looked like a misshapen football. He slid his thumb against a latch at the side, undoing the safety.

“Fire in the hole,” he yelled, rearing back and throwing the football toward the end of the minefield.

As it sailed through the air, the rear of the ball burst apart and a thin Teflon net expanded from the rear. The net was studded with microexplosives. These were more like powerful firecrackers than bombs, but had the same effect on the minefield, exploding in a coordinated pattern designed to create and accentuate a pulsing shock wave. The explosives set off six mines simultaneously, in turn igniting another two dozen nearby. Dirt, water, explosives, and metal roiled into the air. McGowan pushed his head down, protecting himself as the shrapnel settled.

An illumination flare shot up from the center of the compound. Its white phosphorus gave him a good view of the minefield. The explosion had cut only about a third of the way through. He took out a second football and tossed it closer. This time he was too close for comfort; pebbles pelted him as the mines finished exploding.

Inside the fence, Danny had grabbed the first escapee, corralling him while McGowan worked on the mines. He repeated the words for “stop” and “mines” in Arabic, but the man seemed simply bewildered, still half asleep and confused by the explosions. Danny pushed him down to the ground, then signaled to the man running behind him that he should hit the deck as well.

McGowan had one more football, and roughly half of the minefield to take out. The shower from the last blast convinced him that he had to throw it from shelter, so he ducked into the trench leading to the machine-gun post. This time more than a dozen mines ignited immediately, starting a chain reaction that zigged out through the rest of the remaining field.

He started to get up out of the trench to make sure the path was clear, and to mark it for the prisoners. But as McGowan started to his feet, he heard a shout and turned to see a Sudanese soldier pointing his rifle at him.

McGowan raised his hands in surrender.

AS SOON AS THE CATBIRDS EXPLODED, NURI AND BOSTON’S teams began firing at the machine-gun posts in front of them. The guards were taken completely by surprise. The man at the northeast post, in front of Nuri, began firing wildly into the minefield, his bullets setting off several mines. The other man fired a single burst before his gun jammed. Too shaken to clear it, he hunkered down behind the sandbags and waited for the gunfire to stop.

Behind them, troops poured from the barracks. Most ran toward the front of the camp where the battle was raging, either jumping behind sandbags or into the zigging defense trench just outside the perimeter. A good dozen, however, ran to the south side of the camp where the gunfire was less intense, either unable to sort out what was going on or simply out of fear. Their retreat took them to within ten yards of the prisoner pen.

They huddled there for several minutes, unsure what to do. Then an illumination flare ignited overhead, close enough to cast shadows from the moving prisoners. It looked to the soldiers that a fresh attack was coming from that direction, and two of them began firing.

Hera had just found Tarid inside the pen when the gunfire began. She cursed—in English—pushed him to the ground, and began returning fire.

“Go!” she shouted. “Crawl out of here. Get away.”

Tarid twisted back on the ground. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m with Kirk. Go! Get out!”

The gunfire intensified. Tarid began crawling toward the back of the compound. Others were gathered there, crouched down. One fell, then another. Suddenly, the rest of the crowd rose en masse and ran toward the hole at the back of the fence.

Danny grabbed one, trying to stop him, but the others bolted past, running toward the minefield with its cleared but unmarked path.

IN THE TRENCH, MCGOWAN TRIED TO THINK OF SOME WAY to escape. His rifle was at his feet, but he’d be dead by the time he got it in his hands.

“Now listen, you don’t want to shoot me,” he told the soldier.

The soldier heard the shriek of the men escaping and pulled the trigger. His first bullet struck McGowan at the very top of his armored vest, pushing him back.

The next bullets struck his forehead, killing him instantly.

THERE WERE TOO MANY PRISONERS FOR DANNY TO STOP, and finally he just moved aside.

“McGowan, there’s a whole bunch of them coming out,” he said over the radio. “Is it clear? Mac?”

Unaware that McGowan was already dead, Danny crouched down, waiting for Hera and Tarid, and yelling at the prisoners to stop when they ran by.

The first sign that something had gone wrong came a few minutes later, when one of the escaping prisoners strayed out of the path the bombs had created and stepped on a mine. Danny saw the flash—red rather than white, a blossom of color and death.