Upstairs, he walked to the EOC, sat at his desk, and studied the satellite images. He pulled on his headset and typed: MedSupply unit 227, be advised, combat units are assembling at Mitchell and Central Ave to meet hostiles inbound. Estimate two hundred, heavily armed en route with others arriving. Recommend you fall back to rally point Gamma-Bravo.

Elim Kibet rode in the passenger seat of the box truck that rolled through the littered streets of Nairobi. Buildings were burned. Cars lay in charred ruins. Children with blood on their faces watched the truck go by, the flames and smoke behind them a heartbreaking backdrop.

Elim could hardly look. His country’s capital city had fallen.

He hoped that somewhere in the wreckage, he’d find survivors he could save—and IV antibiotics. Hannah was in the truck behind him. She would die soon without them.

The stoplights were dark and lifeless. At an intersection, the lead truck in the convoy paused as the driver checked the cross street. It was blocked off with two burned cars—roadblocks. Elim felt a tinge of nervousness.

Someone raised their head above one of the burned cars, peered at the truck, then ducked back down.

“Go!” Elim said.

The driver of the truck floored it, but it was too late. Ahead, two armored troop carriers pulled into the street, blocking it. Armed men poured out, guns held at the ready. In the side mirror, Elim saw a similar force pull up behind the convoy.

They were trapped.

Chapter 102

Chapter 102

Desmond lay on the metal floor of the cargo container in almost complete darkness.

At the burned ruins of his childhood home, the soldiers had zip-tied his hands and placed a black bag over his head. They hadn’t pulled it off until they’d shoved him in the container.

His cell, such as it was, had six round holes about a foot off the floor, each about an inch in diameter. Desmond figured they were there to let air in, or perhaps for warehouse employees to verify the container’s contents without opening it. He pressed an eye to one of them. Rows and stacks of cargo containers sat on a concrete floor.

After a few minutes of searching, he found a twisted edge on the corrugated metal wall. In the dim light, he carefully placed the zip-tie against the sharp metal, then sawed back and forth until his hands came free.

He heard tapping against the wall of another container. A pattern—Morse code, he thought. Someone in another container? Desmond didn’t know Morse code. He tapped three times to acknowledge that he had heard the signal. Three taps responded from the original location. Then three more, and three more—both from different locations.