The Hunters Read Online Free

flight deck. Parson rose to greet her, but in the cramped cockpit, he managed to stand up only halfway. Gold embraced him and kissed the top of his head. Even in Somalia’s heat and dust, she smelled of scented lotion.
    â€œI was, but I had to come out here to arrange for more security guys,” Gold said. “You saw them when you taxied in.” Gold turned to Chartier, who remained sitting in the copilot’s seat. “Hello, Captain Chartier. I’m delighted you could volunteer your time and talent.” She took his outstretched hand.
    â€œEnchanté,”
Chartier said. “Call me Alain.”
    â€œOr Frenchie,” Parson said. “He answers to that, too. And Froggy Bastard.”
    â€œWe’ll make it Alain,” Gold said.
    â€œYou see?” Chartier said to Parson. “She does everything with class. Why can’t you be more like her?”
    Parson smiled. For him, or anyone, to be like Sophia Gold would amount to a tall order. He considered her the smartest—and toughest—person he knew, and Parson knew a lot of military badasses. He had first met her in the worst of circumstances. Years ago, she had boarded his C-130 Hercules at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. At the time, she served as an Army interpreter accompanying a high-value Taliban prisoner. Soon after takeoff, a shoulder-fired missile downed the Herk. After the crash, Parson and Gold endured a winter ordeal as they evaded capture and kept the Taliban mullah in custody.
    They had shared many missions since then, most recently in North Africa to stop a terrorist group armed with chemical weapons. That’s when they’d met Chartier.
    Parson loved her dearly, though their relationship defied definition. No strings, but strong ties. Because Gold wanted to save the world, Parson had agreed to spend his military leave hauling relief supplies in an antique airplane.
    And getting paid nothing—except time with her.
    The humanitarian work did have another appeal: He’d gotten checked out on the DC-3, one of the classic machines of aviation history, and he could write off the expense as charity. He was even considering taking a longer break with a new sabbatical deal the Air Force offered. Under the Career Intermission Pilot Program, he could take off one to three years for charity work, a graduate degree, or whatever struck his fancy—then resume his military career.
    â€œSo who are those choirboys out there?” Parson asked. “You got the U.S. and French air forces working for you. Did you manage to recruit al-Shabaab, too?”
    â€œOh, no,” Gold said. Her tone turned serious. “Don’t even joke to those guys about that. They
hate
al-Shabaab, like a lot of Somalis.”
    â€œSorry, no offense.”
    â€œIt’s okay. Actually, they’re private security. And al-Shabaab is the reason the UN hired them.”
    â€œHow’s that?” Parson asked.
    â€œWith all the refugees coming home, Somalia’s government wants to show it can handle the situation. Al-Shabaab wants to prove the government can’t.”
    â€œBastards,” Chartier said.
    Parson considered the implications. The terrorists might try anything. Interrupting food shipments—a tried-and-true tactic in Somalia. Attacking government facilities. Assaulting civilian crowds. The African Union Mission in Somalia—AMISOM—provided troops to fight al-Shabaab, but the terrorists remained active and dangerous.
    And here we are in the middle of it, Parson thought. With a geriatric airplane and two pistols. Perfect.
    He didn’t blame Gold for getting him into a risky situation. After decades of anarchy, piracy, civil war, and Black Hawks going down, he hadn’t expected a trouble-free Somalia. If Parson had wanted to spend his leave doing something easy, he’d have gone fishing. But he liked to keep moving, to keep facing challenges. Though he loved the solitude of water