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Climbing back into the rear seat and shutting the door, Brian turned to Henry, who was still behind the wheel.

"How much longer until we reach the airport?"

"A little under thirty minutes," Henry replied, eyes still locked on the road.

Brian immediately pulled out the satellite phone and dialed the pilot. As soon as the call connected, he barked,

"Get the plane on the runway. We'll be there in thirty minutes or less. We need to take off the moment we arrive."

"What? What happened over there?" the pilot asked, alarmed. "Is someone at the airport trying to stop you?"

"If anyone's blocking you, grab the cash from the secure case and pay them off—or shoot them if they don't take the money." Brian's voice was cold and sharp.

"Trust me, the last thing you want is to be stuck on the runway while some goons turn our little plane into Swiss cheese with mounted guns—especially while we're still on it."

"We may have shaken off the convoy for now, but I seriously doubt those bastards will give up so easily. They know where we're headed. The airport's our only exit."

"So handle it. Worst case, we never come back to Somalia."

"Just remember—get that plane onto the runway. We'll be there in less than thirty."

Hanging up, Brian turned to find Audrey Hepburn watching him with concern.

"Don't worry, ma'am," he said with a calm smile. "Just a little hiccup at the airport."

Audrey gave him a tired smirk. "Compared to what we've been through, I guess that does qualify as a little hiccup."

Now able to sit up properly, Audrey glanced toward the road behind them. Her expression tensed again.

"Will they catch up?"

"There's a good chance," Brian said bluntly.

"All this... just to kidnap me? An over-the-hill actress?" she asked skeptically.

"Ma'am, don't underestimate your value," Brian replied seriously.

"You're a Hollywood icon and a UNICEF goodwill ambassador. That makes you a high-profile public figure—someone whose abduction would draw massive global attention. Which means that, no matter what, they have to get you back."

"Unlike black-ops missions where force is used, this kind of situation can often be resolved with money. Negotiations, ransoms—those are standard procedures. It's just a question of how much money, and how good the intermediaries are."

"But from your perspective, you can't just assume rescue is guaranteed. Even if they don't kill you, there's no telling what you'd endure before any deal is made."

"Trust me—those people don't need you to be comfortable, just alive. And they're not running a five-star resort. There's no gourmet food or proper medical care. A healthy man would be reduced to a shell in their hands. You… well, you'd suffer more."

"You hired us to make sure it doesn't come to that. So let us do our job. I'd really like to walk away from this mission with a good review—not as some screw-up in someone's file."

Audrey fell silent, clearly unsettled. Then she looked back toward the second vehicle.

"I hope the others didn't get hurt."

Without answering, Brian picked up the radio and asked,

"This is Alpha. Beta, report status. Any casualties? Over."

A moment later, a voice crackled back:

"This is Beta. All personnel accounted for and unhurt. Repeat—everyone's safe. Over. Hey, motherf**ker Brian, you should see our ride—it's got more holes than a pasta strainer!"

"Watch your mouth, you old dog. There's a lady present," Brian shot back, smirking as he turned to Audrey.

"They're fine. Still alive and swearing—so I'd say all's well."

Audrey sighed with relief. "That's good to hear. Though I suppose our itinerary is canceled now."

"Standard procedure," Brian confirmed.

"Once an escort team is attacked, the visit is terminated and all personnel are withdrawn as soon as possible. We're not soldiers or war correspondents. We're not meant to be on the front lines."

"And the children at the shelter? Will they be safe?" Audrey asked again, concern clouding her face.

"They should be. The children have no value to the kidnappers, so they're unlikely to be targeted."

Brian said it flatly, though he knew better.

In reality, lashing out at others out of frustration was all too common—and those kids made easy scapegoats if things went wrong.

But there was no point saying that out loud. If Audrey suddenly demanded they return to rescue them, it wouldn't matter whether it was dangerous or impossible—they simply couldn't.

"So, where do we go next?" Audrey asked. She understood the mission was over, but wasn't clear on what came next.

It wasn't surprising. After all, she had a professional team to handle the logistics—and who'd ever imagine a simple UNICEF visit would turn into a hostage crisis?

Brian answered,

"According to evacuation protocol, there's no fixed route. The team is supposed to head for the nearest UN peacekeeping base or U.S. military outpost for extraction."

"From there, under protection, they're flown out—either straight to the U.S. or via a European layover. That's the general procedure."

"But right now, we're heading to the airport. If we can get in the air, we'll have a lot more flexibility. It depends on how much fuel we've got. We might even make it directly to the U.S."

Because this was a United Nations-affiliated operation, the mission didn't officially end when the visit did—successfully or not. The final stop was always New York, where the team would report to UN headquarters. That's when the operation was truly over.

"By the way," Audrey added, "Shouldn't we notify the other UNICEF team about what happened?"

Brian shook his head.

"Once we're airborne and safe, we'll get in touch. This doesn't feel like a coordinated hit against the entire team—more like a spur-of-the-moment grab by local militants."

"Besides, the other group has UN peacekeepers with them. They're far safer than we are."

Of course, Brian was keeping a little something to himself.

If they did report this and received orders from HQ, what then? Would he be bound to follow them? That kind of chain-of-command mess was the last thing a split-team operation needed.

Not to mention... they all knew the real mission they'd been running. The collapse of Somalia's local power structure? Yeah, they'd had a hand in that.

So it made sense. Some warlord saw a golden goose waltz into his turf and tried to take a bite. That was the real reason for the ambush.

And in the end, this mess?

It was on him.

Time to swallow the blame—and move on.

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