Nbotou’s soldiers paused for a split second, then let rip a hail of bullets, and two of Gavin’s men dropped instantaneously. No point in attempting to return fire, too many of them. He dived into the undergrowth, feeling the burning sting of bullet through flesh as he did so, hot and cold at the same time. Twenty metres between him and the advancing soldiers, they closed down the gap in a matter of seconds. Footsteps charged past the area where he’d been standing. He pulled himself deeper into the jungle, through the thick vegetation, glanced over his shoulder. He could still see the road, could see the bullets fired into the backs of his prostrate colleagues. Two soldiers unsheathing their machetes, cutting into the bodies, disembowelling them, mutilating them. They wiped the fresh blood on their faces, their movements mechanical, ritualised. One of them pointed at the road, the marks that led into the undergrowth, the red-brown trail Gavin had left in his wake.
He heard a rustling as they approached, gun in one hand, machete in the other. Gavin had always hated knifes. He knew they would take their time, cut him before they killed him, show him the contents of his own body. He pulled a grenade from his belt, felt its reassuring weight in his hand, strangely comforting. He’d always hated knives but he’d always loved explosions. Might as well go out with a fucking big bang, he thought, releasing the pin.
Nbotou hurried down the tunnel, showers of earth falling down the back of his neck with the explosions above him. The tunnel was narrow, but well-built. Put together by the miners he had digging out the coltan ore. Over a mile in length, it led to a clearing that held four large containers. The sort used on cargo ships. He’d had them flown in from Kinshasa and dropped in place by helicopter. They stored his coltan reserves. Each one was covered with camouflage netting and the jungle had grown up quickly around them, hiding them from the satellites that orbited high overhead.
The detonators were placed at the end of the tunnel. Clement was running now, keen to get to them as quickly as possible, release the charges, bring the house in on itself and whoever was left inside.
Ed coughed, steaming up the side of his facemask. No way he could take it off yet. Two canisters of nerve gas per room and the machine guns to cut down anyone trying to leave. The air in the house was still thick with the poison, a pale green mist that hung over the bodies. They lay by windows, by doors. Wherever they had fallen. The nerve agent took seconds to work, inducing paralysis in the respiratory system, a piano falling on your chest, lungs crushed and useless.
“Hell of a lot of people to go through to ID the General.” One of Ed’s men said, rolling a body over with his boot. “And an awful lot of mess to clear up.”
“We don’t have to worry about that. Once we find the body I’ll radio it in and we’re moving out. Our job’s done.” Ed replied. Another voice in his ear, Denbigh up in the tree.
“Ed, there’s movement out here, something’s happening.” Ed ran to a window. Not possible to see over the wall that surrounded the camp. He ran upstairs, three steps at a time.
“What is it? What can you see?” He asked, stepping over bodies, squinting through the shutters in Nbotou’s room.
“Something in the jungle.” Denbigh replied. “Movements. I think they’re moving into position. The soldiers who deserted. Somebody is organising them.
“Fuck.” Ed replied. Eyes fixed on the tree line. “Fuck fuck fuck. Two options, we can either fight it out here or we can split. Take our chances in the jungle. Ammo’s limited so the jungle gets my vote.”
“What about Nbotou, we don’t know if we’ve got him yet.” One of the men replied.
“Fuck ’im. He’s either dead or he fled. Nothing more we can do. What’s the situation outside Denbigh?”
“Troops in position around the perimeter. I can give you a heads up on where they are but it’s almost light now. They’ll see you going over the wall and they’ll see you coming out the gate. If you can hold out till nightfall maybe you should. Over.”
Ed shook his head, “Not possible, we’re all fired out. Now or never.” Denbigh checked the thermal imaging camera.
“Go for the rear wall then. Lowest concentration of hostiles there. I’ll create a diversion at the front, send a couple of grenades…” He didn’t finish his sentence. An almighty boom and the walls of the house exploded outwards, clouds of smoke and debris catapulted high into the air, ripping through the trees in the courtyard. A timber-splitting screech as the roof collapsed in on itself, colonial grandeur to rubble in a matter of seconds.
“Can you hear me? Team one, anybody. Does anybody copy?” Denbigh asked. No answer. “Team one, do you copy?” He tried Gavin’s team. “Team two?” Nothing.
The clouds of dust were just beginning to settle when something whistled past him, a stone. Then another. He looked below. Four boy soldiers at the bottom of the tree, grinning at him like they were trying to dislodge a cat clinging to a branch. They’d put down their weapons to throw the stones. Now they picked them up again.
“Shit.” Denbigh said, as bullets splintered the bark around him. He ducked round the other side of the tree trunk and spoke quickly into his GPS. Officer Denbigh, LMS, the code Special Forces used when a mission had gone tits up, Last Man Standing. Target’s death unverified. Repeat, target’s death unverified.
Nbotou listened to the explosion, he allowed himself a brief, satisfied smile as he pulled himself up the ladder and out of the trap door.
“Otope, do you copy? What can you see?” He asked into his walkie-talkie.
“House has fallen, enemy soldiers were inside. I will send men. See what we can uncover from the rubble.”
58
Archie pushed his hand firmly against the helicopter window, anything to steady him as it bucked and rolled in the stormy air. The pilot had demanded double the fee for flying in these conditions and still looked disappointed when Archie agreed.
The weather was interfering with the tracking device too, the screen disrupted by static. But they were heading in the right direction. In the distance, what sounded like thunder was really echoing loud explosions over the treetops. Archie knew better, but he didn’t tell the pilot. One hour’s flying through the heavy rain and the dull yellow blip was flashing close to the centre of the screen. He didn’t get his hopes up. If Jack was even wearing the watch he might still be several miles from where the tracking device said he was.
“What’s that?” He asked, tugging at the pilot’s sleeve, pointing below him. It looked like a section of jungle had been cleared by an explosion, a small army of ant-sized people crawling all over it. The pilot shrugged, too busy keeping the helicopter horizontal to get a proper look.
“A lot of trouble down there, in this region. Warlords, a lot of fighting. For diamonds, coltan. Whatever they can get their hands on. Crazy people,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Archie peered through the rain-spattered window. The explosion had happened recently. The dust and debris still scattered over the surrounding area. He did a double take, certain he had seen half a grand piano wedged in a tree.
“Lower, take us lower.” He said. The pilot bit his lip and circled the camp. “Not a good idea to stick around for long here.” He said quickly.
Archie took it all in, a tiled roof collapsed to ground level, a courtyard that looked like an army camp, and children firing guns into the air. He checked the tracking device. The yellow dot almost at the centre of the screen. What the hell was this world they had dragged Jack into?
“North east pilot. First available clearing you set me down. If there isn’t one I’ll use a rope and swing out.”