“We’re going west,” said the Arabic voice. It seemed one of the Mexicans was along as translator, for he had Arabic skills, and even in the dark, squinting, confused, Juba could tell that his face had significantly different features. He was some kind of transplanted Syrian, judging from the accent.

Next, they pulled the boy out.

“About time,” said the kid. “I am so thirsty. Got anything to drink?”

“Who is this?” said the Syrian. “We were told only one.”

“He is with me,” said Juba. “He is fine.”

Jared jumped in with, “I’m his go-between. I’m the guy who introduced him to America. I happened to be with him when the shit hit the fan, that’s why I’m here.”

“He is jihadi,” said Juba, in English.

It was the best thing anyone had ever said about Jared.

•   •   •

They stopped, and a man ran in an outlet for food. Burger King, not McDonald’s. Better hamburger, French frieds not so good.

They drove again, through the night.

The Syrian caught them up.

“We got you guys out just in time. How’d they know? Is there a leak?”

“This is what they do,” said Juba. “It is their job. No leak, just them reading the signs.”

“Maybe so,” said the Syrian. “Anyway, we were stuck at a roadblock for a while, they were doing a search of vehicles headed out of Greenville onto the interstate. We thought we might have to use this.”

He patted something on the floor covered with a tarpaulin, pulled the canvas back, exposing a Russian PK on a bipod, its long belt of 7.62 RPD gathered in a heap under the receiver.

“Bad news, but then a few car lengths before we got there, they tore it up and pulled out. I don’t know why.”

“The hand of Allah?” said the boy.

“Possibly they didn’t want a gun battle on the highway,” said Juba.

“Ever since, we’ve been driving without incident. The radio says something about murders in Detroit, three dealers.”

“It was necessary,” said Juba.

“It’s of no importance. All the same, I wouldn’t return to Detroit anytime soon.”

“Who are you guys?” asked Jared.

“Cartel,” Juba said. “They have the capacity to support my enterprise. They have been paid a great deal for their interest.”

“You will meet Señor Menendez shortly,” said the Syrian. “He is a great and powerful man. A visionary. With his might behind you, you cannot fail. We will also abandon this rattletrap van and continue our journey in comfort.”

“Where are we going?” asked Jared.

“Little boy,” said Juba, “you do not ask men like these such questions. They are professionals. You show them respect by allowing them to do their jobs.”