Rook didn’t bother trying to wrench the SOG knife free of the corpse, but launched himself at the still living threat. He cleared the distance in a single leap and drove the man back, through the open doors and onto the balcony where they crashed together in a heap. Rook succeeded in trapping the man’s right arm across his abdomen, but he hadn’t been fast enough to keep his foe from drawing the machine pistol. The gunman’s finger tightened on the trigger and the pistol sandwiched between their bodies erupted in a burst of noise and lead.
A searing blast of heat scorched Rook’s chest where it was pressed against the gun. The pain was sudden and intense enough that he thought he’d been shot, but he didn’t let the injury slow him down. As the mercenary fought to get his weapon free, Rook delivered a knife-hand blow to the man’s throat that ended all resistance. Rook rolled off the stricken mercenary, but it wasn’t until he heard more shooting that he realized that stealth was no longer an option.
“Two down,” he heard Queen say. “I’m coming in. Don’t shoot me.”
“Wait.” Rook was still feeling a little disoriented after the unexpected struggle with the mercenary. He looked around and met the eyes of the bound hostage, the man they were here to rescue. “I think we’re clear. Stay put. I’ll be right down.”
“Roger.”
He moved over to Mulamba and plucked off the tape covering the man’s mouth. Mulamba winced as the adhesive took a layer of skin, but he immediately broke into a smile. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Call me Rook. And don’t thank me until we’re out of here.” He saw that the mercenaries had used half-inch wide wire-reinforced zip-ties to secure Mulamba’s arms and legs in place. He reached for his knife then remembered where he’d left it, buried in the chest of the mercenary near the entrance to the room. He’d driven it deep, and as he struggled to wrench it free, he felt like an unworthy knight trying to draw Excalibur from the stone.
“Uh, oh,” Queen said.
Rook didn’t like the sound of that.
A shout drifted in through the open balcony doors — definitely not Queen’s voice — and a moment later, he heard two more sharp reports.
He definitely didn’t like the sound of that.
He began wiggling the blade back and forth until it finally came free. Ignoring the blood that now dripped down onto his hand, he hastened back to the prisoner and slipped the blade underneath the zip-ties.
Queen spat a curse. “Alamo time. I’m coming in.”
“Where’d they come from?” He gave the blade a twist and the plastic restraint parted, but not before pulling taut against Mulamba’s wrist. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“This is not a time to be gentle, Rook.” The man spoke with an almost musical accent. “Do what you must. No worries.”
Rook laughed in spite of the urgency of the moment. “No worries. Hakuna matata, right?”
Mulamba’s smile broadened. “You speak Swahili?”
“Not exactly. ” He moved the blade to the second tie.
“I’m coming up,” Queen shouted. “They’ve got both exits covered. Hope you’ve got an alternate exit up there.”
“Damn. Where did these guys come from?” Rook caught Mulamba’s blank look and added, “Sorry, Mr. President, got my girlfriend on the other line.”
“Call me Joe.”
Rook nodded.
“Not sure,” Queen said. “Might have been in the barn.”
“The barn? Damn.” There had been five men in the house, and now a force of unknown size was swarming out of the barn. Somebody had gone to great lengths to make sure that Mulamba didn’t get away.
He cut the remaining bonds and then scooped up a discarded Skorpion. “Know how to use one of these, Joe?”
The African president eyed the weapon with distaste, as if the thought of firing it brought back bad memories, but then he nodded and took it. He unfolded the collapsible stock and snugged it to his shoulder. “I do.”
“Coming in!” Queen shouted. She appeared at the doorway a moment later and dropped into a crouch beside the opening. She risked a quick glance in Rook’s direction, and then said simply: “They’re coming.”
11
Felice Carter awoke to the sound of gunfire.
She rolled from her cot, still bleary-eyed, uncertain whether the noise was something from a dream or something real. Then there was another report, the chattering sound of a machine gun, and she knew it wasn’t her imagination.
The war had found them.
The tent flap flew back and she jerked in alarm, but it was only Sam.
“Felice! The rebels are attacking. We have to leave!”
She scooted her backpack out from beneath her cot and slung it over one shoulder. They had known that this was a possibility and had prepared accordingly. As much as she had wanted to believe that the storm would pass, leaving them untouched, she had not let herself give in to the seductive lethargy of denial. She had packed her go-bag and slept in her clothes…
Just in case this happened.
The noise of machine gun fire was almost constant, and close enough that the sound itself was an assault on the senses. Sam urged her on with an impatient wave, then turned and ducked through the flap. She was only a few steps behind him when he suddenly jerked as if he’d stepped on a live wire. He pitched backward. A series of red splotches dotted his torso, gushing dark blood.
Felice skidded to a halt, throwing herself flat beside him. Over the staccato reports, she heard a different sound, like someone beating on the heavy canvas walls of her shelter, and a line of holes appeared in the fabric, allowing the early morning sunlight to stream in along with the sulfur smell of burnt gunpowder.
She crawled away from Sam’s body, retreating to the back of the tent. Leaving through the front wasn’t an option but she had to get out and reach the rest of the team.
She slipped her Gerber folding multi-tool from its sheath on her belt and opened the knife blade. More rounds pierced the tent above her head, but she focused on what she had to do. She stabbed the knife point through the heavy canvas and worked it back and forth, sawing open a hole big enough to crawl through. Through the cut doorway, she could see the dark brown and green of the rain forest, just twenty yards away, looking as foreboding as the first time she had glimpsed it. The jungle wasn’t where she wanted to be, but it would get her away from the gunmen.
She edged out, just far enough to make sure the coast was clear, and then launched herself through the opening. In her peripheral vision, she could see the other tents lined up beside hers with almost military precision, twenty of them in all. Ten of them were for the science team, herself and her colleagues, and five more were for their locally hired support team, the latter sleeping four to a tent. Thirty people in all, twenty-nine now that Sam was dead. She wondered how many of the others were still alive.
She reached the edge of the clearing and crouched behind the nearest tree. The tents blocked her view of the attack, but she could see a low pall of smoke hanging over the camp. Above the din of weapons fire, she could hear shouting — the gunmen bellowing orders mixed with cries of terror from the victims.
Keeping to the tree line, she ran toward the south end of the camp. When they had learned of the political upheaval in distant Kinshasa, they had made a contingency plan to evacuate at the first sign of trouble, but this attack had come without warning. She wondered if anyone had made it to the trucks parked at the center of the camp, and if they had already left without her. All of the local men carried rifles, and she knew that at least some of the shooting was probably defensive fire. Perhaps they were holding off the attackers long enough for the scientists to make their escape. It was something to hope for, but she didn’t think it very likely.