A second bullet punched through the rear window and slammed into the dashboard. Fisher ducked down. Somewhere he could hear Aly's tinny voice calling, "Sam . . . Sam . . . are you there . . . ?" A third and fourth bullet tore through the back window, shattering it and spiderwebbing the windshield. Through the cracks he saw a kopje looming.

He jerked the wheel to the right, felt the left front tire bump over a rock, then they were tipping, the sky canting through the windshield.

FISHERforced open his eyes--one of his lids felt glued shut with what he assumed was blood--and looked around. The Rover had rolled once and come to rest on its roof, but the solid-cage construction had kept the interior intact, save his side window, which had shattered with the compression. Through the side window Fisher could see scrub grass. Jimiyu, whose seat belt had been demolished by the first bullet, lay in a heap, wedged between the dashboard and the windshield. Fisher realized the Rover's engine was still running. He vaguely thought, Gas leak, then Fire, then reached over and switched off the ignition. He undid his own seat belt, then rolled onto his side and reached toward Jimiyu. He found his hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Jimiyu," Fisher whispered. "Can you hear me?"

". . . es . . ."

"Stay still, don't move. Squeeze my hand if you understand."

Squeeze.

"Play dead. They'll be coming to finish us off."

Squeeze.

Fisher rolled over. He looked between the seats, searching for the M-14, and spotted the stock between the center console, which had detached itself during the rollover, and the roof. He grabbed the stock, gave it a tug. It didn't budge.

From outside came the roaring of an engine, then tires skidding on dirt. Three car doors opened and slammed, and Fisher heard boots crunching on gravel.

He reached out, wrapped both hands around the stock, took in a deep breath, and heaved. The M-14 came loose, the butt smacking him in the lip. He tasted blood. Rifle held lengthwise down his body, he pushed off the dash with his legs, squirming until his torso was out the side window, then pushed again and drew his knees out.

On the other side of the Rover he heard a whispered voice say something, then once more. It took a moment for Fisher to realize it was Kyrgyz--something about going around.

Slowly, quietly, Fisher rose into a crouch. He flipped off the M-14's safety, took a few breaths to clear his head, then crab-walked to the rear of the Rover. Around the corner post he heard footsteps chafing the grass. He switched the M-14 to his left hand, drew the Applegate, flipped it open, and clenched it in his right hand, blade down and pointing back along his forearm. A thought popped into his head: Crime scene. He laid the M-14 in the grass.

The footsteps came closer. Fisher saw a man-shaped shadow fall across the grass. In one smooth motion, Fisher stepped around the Rover's corner post and rose up, grabbing and lifting the man's rifle stock while sweeping the Applegate up in a tight arc. He jammed it hilt-deep into the hollow spot behind the man's jaw and beneath his ear. The man never made a sound, dead before he hit the ground.

Fisher kept moving. He reversed the man's rifle--a FAMAS 5.56mm--shouldered it, took three quick steps out from behind the Rover, and saw a man turning toward him. He fired twice. Both rounds punched through the man's sternum. Even as he fell, Fisher was moving again, this time in the opposite direction, back across the rear of the Rover, where he dropped to one knee and leaned out, rifle at his shoulder. The last man was moving down the passenger side, his FAMAS coming up. Fisher fired. The bullet caught the man in the hip and spun him around. He screamed and toppled onto his side and kept rolling, trying to bring the FAMAS to bear. Fisher fired again. The bullet drilled a neat hole in the man's forehead. His head snapped back, and he went limp.

Moving on instinct, he checked each man to ensure he was dead and for any identifying papers (there were none), then crouched down and took ten seconds to catch his breath. He looked around. No cars on the road, none visible. He thought for a moment, running scenarios in his head, then made his decision. He dropped the FAMAS in the dirt, then hurried back to the driver's side window and dropped to his belly.

"Jimiyu, can you hear me?"

There were a few seconds of silence, the Kenyan cleared his throat and said softly, "I can hear you. Is it safe to no longer be dead?"

32

HEpulled Jimiyu from the Rover and checked him over. The bullet, moving slightly backward to forward, had carved a groove in the bony tip of his shoulder, then punched cleanly through the skin of his neck between a tendon and his jugular vein. There was a lot of blood but only superficial damage. A half inch to the right, and Jimiyu would be dead.

Fisher dug the first aid kit from the Rover's glove compartment, then dressed both his wounds and covered him with a blanket.

Next he picked up the M-14 and jogged the quarter mile to a rocky outcrop overlooking the lake. He hurled the rifle far into the water, then ran back to the Rover.

"Who were those men?" Jimiyu asked.

"The less you know, the better," Fisher said. "They were highway bandits. They ambushed us, and we never saw them coming. When you woke up, the Rover was lying on its side, and the men were already dead. You didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, and you don't remember anything after your window shattered. Got it?"

Jimiyu nodded. "I understand." Then, softly: "You killed them, Sam." There was no reproach in the Kenyan's voice, only astonishment.

"I'm sorry I got you into this."

"No apologies necessary, my new friend. What do we do now?"

The police were going to be involved; there was no way around it, which is why he'd chosen to not use the M-14 and to dispose of it. The better he could play the lucky victim, the easier things would go.

He hit speed dial on his satellite phone. When Grimsdottir answered, he said simply, "Napper, three, mess. Stand by." Then he hung up and dialed Aly. She picked up on the first ring.

"My God, what happened?" she asked. "I heard shots over the phone--"

"Have you called the police?"

"No, I wanted to hear from you."

"Good. How do you feel about not calling them?"

She hesitated. "Do you want me to not call them?"

"I'd be grateful."

"Okay."

Fisher thanked her, promised to be in touch, then disconnected. He cleared the phone's call memory.

East down the road he saw a car round the bend toward them. He jogged to the shoulder and started waving his arms.

THEWestern District Police and an ambulance from Kendu Adventist Hospital in Kendu Bay were there in twenty minutes. As Jimiyu was loaded into the ambulance, Fisher walked the one constable through the shooting and the accident while the other covered the bodies of the Kyrgyz in green plastic tarps and searched both vehicles and jotted notes.

Fisher stopped and restarted his story a half dozen times as though confused, asked for water, to sit down, then wondered aloud if he should go to the hospital. At last, after fifteen minutes, he got the whole story out.

"And you say these men just began firing at you?" The constable spoke perfect English with the barest hint of a British accent.