And since the Sentwali boys had indicated that two of the men may be soldiers, Ngeze was not about to take any chances. It was far easier to simply bury their bodies and pay off people in town to tell a fabricated story, if asked.
Judging from the continued silence, some of Ngeze’s remaining men slung rifles over their shoulders and prepared to descend and clean up the mess. It was something they had done many times before.
But as they took their first steps forward, one of the men below reappeared. He peered back up the embankment and shook his head.
The rest of the men, now unsure, turned and awaited a response. Ngeze broke the silence and yelled. “What! How many dead?”
With another shake of his head, his man yelled back in Kinyarwandan. “Nothing. No one.”
Ngeze’s eyes flared. “Impossible!” He stormed downhill, followed quickly by the rest. The messenger waited at the bottom until they got closer, finally turning back into the foliage with Ngeze on his heels.
Once through the trees, the Hutu commander looked around carefully. It was impossible! They’d heard the Americans talking and fired directly on them.
“Eminence,” one of his men called to him.
Ngeze crossed through the low brush and stopped where the other man was standing, staring down at the ground. On top of the trampled leaves lay dozens of spent bullets grouped together in a curved line.
“Anyone hurt?” Clay demanded.
DeeAnn checked the primates and shook her head, when Clay turned to Caesare.
“How many would you guess?”
“Maybe two dozen,” Caesare answered pointedly, peering intently back into the trees.
“Same here.”
Behind them, and without a word, Ronin dropped the pack from his back and withdrew a thin, silver-colored rifle. As he wrapped his hands around the barrel, it automatically grew and extended itself several more inches. A light flashed on both the weapon and his armband indicating they were linked.
“That was a quite a trick back there,” Caesare commented over his shoulder. “What else can that thing do?”
Ronin raised his gun. “Many things.”
Clay grinned. “Good. Got any more of those in your pack?”
“I do not.”
“Worth a shot.” He turned to DeeAnn. “We’re going to need to split up and get you somewhere safe. There’s too many of them for you to stay with us.”
“Where is safe?”
Clay pointed along the eastern side of the mountain. “That way. Ronin, can you get them up there? Should be safer.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Get to higher ground. If they get through us, at least you’ll see them coming.” Clay turned to DeeAnn. “Still have your phone?”
She checked her pocket. “Right here.”
“Good.” He pulled out and checked his magazine before sliding it back into the bottom of his M12.
Next to him, Caesare unzipped both bags and handed Clay more magazines, which he stuffed in the side pockets of his pants. Together, they each hefted their packs over both shoulders.
Caesare raised a camouflage Boonie hat and pulled it firmly down over his black hair. With a grizzled expression, he turned to DeeAnn. “Get going. We don’t have much time.”
DeeAnn hesitated. “Steve…”
“I know, I know, you’re gonna miss me. Me too, now get out of here.” He then patted Dulce on the head, only to have her lunge forward and wrap her arms around his leg. “Time to go. Run fast, Dulce!”
With sad eyes, Dulce looked back and forth between the men, signing something DeeAnn’s vest could not hear.
“Go,” Caesare said firmly. “You’ll be safe.”
Both men watched briefly as the four took off running, led by Ronin, and disappeared into the bushes. Then the two promptly turned back around.
Clay squatted, scanning what he could see from his view through the trees. “Looked like they were curved around that small ridge.”
“What I wouldn’t give for a squad of Marines right now.”
“You and me both,” Clay replied dryly.
“At least we have good cover. But these Berettas aren’t much good for distance shots. We gotta stay in tight.”
“Agreed.” Clay turned and scanned the thick foliage behind them. “And slowly draw them out.”
“Try and break ‘em up.”
“Right.” Clay looked at Caesare with steadfast blue eyes. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Ngeze and his men were more militia than anything else. Paid killers, many formerly serving in the Rwandan Patriotic Army, or RPA, now employed by Ngeze to maintain his stranglehold over nearly everything west of the Ruhondo. And what they lacked in experience, they made up for in ruthlessness. They had yet to have someone discover their secret poppy plants and live. Instead their remains were buried in shallow graves after being thoroughly interrogated, until they were sure word had not spread.
For now, Ngeze’s men focused their search near the bottom of the ridge, glancing ahead through openings in the forest for signs of movement.
Ngeze himself emerged from the bushes and slowly climbed another small incline, followed by one of his men named Boshoso.
Muscular and dark-skinned, Boshoso was almost a foot taller. The man was Ngeze’s right hand, an officer in the RPA before being discharged under “unfavorable circumstances.”
As he approached, Boshoso’s eyes moved through the trees and back to Ngeze, who merely shook his head.
Boshoso was surprised. He’d never seen anyone escape such an onslaught, nor bullets clustered on the ground like that. Something very different was happening here.
“We are dealing with something else here,” his boss said.
“I agree.”
“We must be careful. Especially if these are American soldiers.”
Boshoso did not answer. Instead, he faced the forest again and allowed his lips to spread into a tight grin. Fighting and killing soldiers was more than just a thrill to him. It was about beating an adversary who had been trained. Another predator. And American soldiers were even better. The head of an American soldier was a trophy.
What Boshoso was blissfully unaware of was that the “trophies” he sought were not common soldiers. Even ex-SEALs remained some of the best trained fighters on the planet, trained to dominate in virtually any terrain. Including areas similar to the one they were now in. And in a heavy forest like Ngeze’s, SEALs could not only attack and move in the blink of an eye, they could damn near disappear altogether.
It was a dire realization that came all too soon, when the Americans suddenly opened fire on the first of Ngeze’s men. Seemingly from nowhere, the ambush dropped them with a short burst that ended as quickly as it began.
Yelling erupted as the rest of Ngeze’s men turned and immediately scattered for cover.
Clay and Caesare were already moving. Retreating and repositioning, they found new cover seconds before several of their attackers rose, opening fire into the thick brush in front of them.
The echoes of the barrage faded into silence while Ngeze’s men braced for return fire.
But none came.
Abruptly, Boshoso began shouting at the top of his lungs. Driving the men forward with another salvo, he screamed for them to spread out.
Behind him, Ngeze raised his own rifle and lowered himself behind a boulder. He popped his gun up to eye level and listened.
Another burst of fire erupted, short and controlled. His men began yelling again, before their own fire resumed.
Clay and Caesare relocated, now spreading out from one another. This time they waited longer, not only for Ngeze’s men to stop shooting, but to eventually press forward in the increasing hope that their fire had finally struck the Americans.