“Anyway,” said the Syrian, “you should know that all items you requested have been acquired and are where they need to be. Your rifle came in from Mexico with a recent large shipment and awaits for your hands to assemble it. You will not be bothered at the shooting range we have for you. All things will happen as they have been planned.”

Juba sat back. He settled into the seat. He seemed, for the first time, without tension. The van rolled through the dark.

•   •   •

Dawn cracked the eastern horizon behind them. Gray light spilled from the sky. They shared the road with semi-trailers, a few SUVS, all of which flew by them in the left lane. Lights came and went, and the only sound was of men breathing. Jared was full of questions, but he asked none. Cartel? That bothered him. They were ruthless, had no ideology except greed, and became allies only via payment. But Juba clearly trusted them, and without them, he’d be sitting in a Greenville cell, waiting for his father’s lawyer to arrive, wondering if he had the guts to take the fall for the woman or sell out Juba for less jail time. He hoped he never had to discover the answer.

They slowed, the blinker was activated, and the van left the highway, taking an exit, somewhere in the vastness of rural America. He wanted to ask, “Are we there?” but thought it a bad idea.

The van pulled into a farm, drove around the back of the house to the barnyard, where a large black SUV awaited. The van came to a halt.

The Syrian said, “Sir, that package still in the compartment, that is a weapon, no?”

“It is,” said Juba.

“You must leave it there. You must not be armed in the presence of Señor Menendez.”

“I understand. I have no other weapons.”

“And you?” he asked Jared.

“No, of course not.”

“All right, out. Enjoy the fresh air.”

They climbed from the van, and indeed the fresh air seemed like a reward. Jared inhaled, almost becoming dizzy from the pleasure of it. He was still ticking, despite it all.

A man got out of the SUV and opened the back door. Another man got out, thin, handsome, Hispanic, of grandee heritage, in a well-tailored blue suit and black loafers. His Rolex was gold as were his tie clip and his cuff links. His teeth were white and perfect, his hair thick and well cut, his manner smoothly aristocratic.

“Sir,” he said, “I welcome you. I am Menendez.”

The Syrian translated from the English to the Arabic.

“It is an honor, señor,” replied Juba.

“As you have been told, all is in waiting. From here on, things will go smoothly. Your visit is much anticipated.”

“Excellent,” said Juba.

“And this young man?”

“He is my assistant. Young but eager. Has proven himself in action twice during the past few days. Jihadi to the core.”