“I am on a fact-finding mission.” Marrs enunciated each word as if that would somehow lend gravity to his statement. “This region may have strategic importance to the energy policy of the United States of America, so naturally my colleagues and I are concerned with maintaining stability.”
King suddenly understood what Okoa had meant with his accusation. He didn’t know exactly what kind of resources the Congo had to offer, but the evident collusion between Marrs and Executive Solutions International hinted at a well-funded agenda.
An agenda that would have been seriously threatened by Joseph Mulamba’s plan to create a unified African federation.
Favreau spoke up. “Mr. President, we can end this crisis right now, right here in this room, without any meddling from foreign governments.”
Okoa seemed to deflate a little. “And all it will cost me is the wealth of my nation.”
“Sir, my employers do not want to take away the resources of your nation. They want a mutually beneficial partnership, that will help you and your citizens reap the benefits of those resources. What do you want to give your people? Jobs? Security? A future?” She cast a glance at King. “Or genocide?”
King subvocalized a message to Deep Blue. “Who is this bitch working for?”
Marrs was quick to add his input. “I am in complete agreement, sir. We do not, I can’t stress that enough, do not want to meddle in your affairs. We want to help you help yourselves.”
“ESI’s client list is heavily safeguarded,” Deep Blue said, “but the record of Marrs’s campaign donors isn’t. His super-PAC receives support from three different petroleum multinationals. Consolidated Energy tops that list. It’s probably not a coincidence that Methods Logistics — the second largest oil field support company in the world — is headquartered in Salt Lake City.”
King suddenly felt like he was in over his head. He was a soldier, a warrior, accustomed to dealing with threats head on. This was an entirely different kind of battlefield.
Deep Blue must have sensed his growing frustration. “Disengage,” he advised. “You won’t beat Marrs here. We need to find out more.”
King scanned the faces in the room once more. Several of the politicians were nodding in evident support of Favreau’s statement, and Okoa, too, seemed to be wavering.
King stood up and addressed the man at the head of the table. “Sir, it’s not my place to advise you on matters of internal policy. I’m here to give you whatever support I can… until President Mulamba is restored to office.”
The words had the desired effect. A stir of confusion arose among the government officials. Marrs looked bewildered. Favreau’s gaze sharpened to its earlier intensity. She leaned back and whispered something to one of her steroid-infused goons.
She knows.
King drove the point deeper. “Maybe you haven’t heard, but President Mulamba has been found. He’s alive and well, and on his way back right now.” Please let it be true. He turned to Asya. “Let’s go.”
No one stopped them from leaving the room, but as soon as they were in the hall outside, General Mabuki caught up to them. “Is this true? The President is alive?”
“He is.” King didn’t like deceiving the man with a half-truth, but revealing his uncertainty about Mulamba’s fate would undermine what little advantage he had gained. “If you are as loyal to him as you claim, then let me help you hold this country together until he returns.”
The general gave a pensive nod. “There is only so much that I can do, but I will try. I will speak to you again when the meeting is over.”
When he was gone, Asya said, “Well that was fun. Are all your assignments like this?”
No, he almost said. Usually there are monsters.
Before he could utter the comment, a group of soldiers rushed toward them. At first, King thought they might be Mabuki’s men, come to escort them to a place where they could await the general’s return, but two things made him quickly realize this was not the case.
Unlike the Republican Guards he had seen thus far, these men were not wearing red berets. Rather, they wore soft patrol caps that matched their uniforms.
The second indicator was much more explicit.
The soldiers were all aiming their Kalashnikov carbines at him.
15
Queen held her SIG out in a two-handed grip, the muzzle trained on the door. Behind her, Joseph Mulamba raised his weapon as well, but Rook placed a hand on the muzzle and gently pushed Mulamba behind him.
“Just stay back, sir,” Rook said.
“Let him fight,” Queen said, “When they come through that door, we’re going to need all the firepower we can get.”
Rook gave a nod. “I agree. So let’s keep them on the other side of that door.”
He advanced, his pistol at the ready, and knelt down. When he was as close to the opening as he dared get, he took his glasses off, set them on the floor so that the lenses were facing out, and then slid them out into the hallway.
Queen gave a little gasp of delight when she saw the result. It was like being able to see through the wall. Two figures, both tagged with a red icon, were creeping along the passage, just a few yards from the door. She raised two fingers to signal Rook, then inspiration dawned. She took a step back, aimed her pistol at the wall, and fired twice.
The bullets punched through the thin plaster and then kept right on going through the heads of the two mercenaries. Queen saw both men go down, the one closest to the door pitching forward, and then his image, along with everything else that was being transmitted in the virtual display, abruptly vanished. Just visible on the hall floor was the outstretched hand of the dead would-be attacker. The Skorpion pistol in his grip had landed squarely atop Rook’s glasses, smashing them to bits.
“O-kay,” Rook said slowly. “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“It was a good idea,” Queen said. “I just wish we had a spare pair.”
Deep Blue’s voice sounded in her head. “You do. Use your glasses, Queen. You can use the q-phones to view the feed. I’ll configure them remotely.”
Queen relayed the message to Rook, and then took her q-phone out and placed her thumb on the dark screen to unlock it. It immediately glowed to life, and showed a picture of what Queen was looking at, which at that moment happened to be the phone in her hand, creating an infinity mirror effect. She took the glasses off and extended them around the door frame so that the phone screen showed the now empty hallway.
Rook was looking at the display of his phone as well, which also showed the feed from Queen’s glasses. “Where’d they go?”
Queen knew there were at least three more gunmen, and possibly as many as six more, but evidently the loss of their vanguard had caused them to reconsider their tactics. “Keep watching the hall. I’m going to check the balcony.”
Staying low, with the glasses held up over her head like a periscope, she crept through the French doors and scanned the ground below. She immediately spotted two mercenaries, crouched down behind a parked car in the driveway. Their guns were trained on the front of the house. The men were hunkered down. Not going anywhere.
They’re covering someone, she realized, and extended the glasses out a little further, tilting them down to reveal the front porch almost directly beneath her. She expected to see a line of men preparing to storm the house, but something much worse waited below.
“Shit,” she muttered.
There were more mercenaries near the front of the house, but they weren’t getting ready to make a tactical entry. Instead, they had opted for a scorched earth policy — literally. Two men poured the contents of large red metal canisters onto the side of the house and all over the porch. If she had any doubts about what was in those cans, they were swept away when she caught a whiff of gasoline fumes.