Mulamba, still in a daze, was slow to exit, but as soon as his door was open, Queen grabbed his arm and dragged him along. Her leg throbbed with every step, threatening to collapse beneath her, but through sheer force of will, she stayed on her feet and kept moving, almost faster than Mulamba could manage.
Behind them, perhaps two hundred yards away, the pick-up full of mercenaries burst out of the driveway and skidded onto the road. Queen reached back and fired the SIG, emptying the magazine. The truck was well outside the effective range of the pistol, but Queen wasn’t shooting in hopes of hitting someone. She was just trying to buy them a few more seconds.
She saw Rook reach the car and yank the door open… the left door. Wrong side, Rook. He threw his head back and shouted, “Friggin’ backwards England!” She heard him despite the distance, and for a second, she wondered why his curse hadn’t come through on the comm link, but then she remembered that he had sacrificed his glasses during the escape.
Rook didn’t let his frustration slow him down. He leaped across the hood and got in on the right side. A moment later, the car’s tail lights flashed and its backup lights came on. A cloud of rubber smoke rose up and half a second later, she heard the squeal of tires, time delayed because of the distance the sound had to travel.
This is going to be close, she realized. She and Mulamba were at the mid-point between the sedan and the pick-up full of mercenaries. The latter had the advantage of moving forward and a higher range of acceleration, but as long as they were moving away from it and toward Rook, there was a chance. She considered trying to reload the SIG, but wasn’t sure that she could juggle one more task.
Move your ass, Rook!
She started and nearly tripped as a loud report sounded right behind her. It wasn’t the mercenaries, but Mulamba, firing the Skorpion Rook had given him. He let off two long bursts and more than a few of his rounds found their target, sparking off the truck’s hood, shattering the headlights and windshield. The pick-up swerved and slowed, and Queen thought maybe he had hit the driver as well.
Another shriek of tires and grinding brakes signaled Rook’s arrival. He had swerved out into the road at the last second, and now idled beside them. Queen got the rear door open, pushed Mulamba in, and then climbed in after.
“Go!”
Rook was already going, accelerating down the straightaway as fast as the car would go, not exactly street-racer fast, but enough. “And remember to drive on the left!”
Rook muttered a curse, and Queen felt the car swerve into the other lane. Behind them, the pick-up was starting to move forward again, but Mulamba’s volley had definitely taken the wind out of their sails, and Rook was able to increase their lead to the point where it was clear that the mercenaries had given up the chase. A few minutes later, they passed a string of emergency vehicles — police cars and fire trucks — responding to the towering column of black smoke, and Rook slowed to a less conspicuous pace.
“Well, that didn’t quite go according to plan,” he said, “but I think we’re clear.”
Queen finally allowed herself to breathe normally. She widened the hole in her blood-soaked jeans to fully expose the injury that now throbbed in time with her heartbeat. At the center of the oozing wound was a piece of dark metal that looked almost like a tiny shark tooth. She massaged the surrounding tissue until it was close enough to the surface for her pluck it out with her fingernails. She would need stitches to close it, but that would have to wait a while longer.
She glanced over at Mulamba. “Are you all right? Any injuries?”
The Congolese president stared back at her for a moment as if uncomprehending, but then broke into a broad smile. “I am free! Thank you, thank you so much.”
Rook looked over his shoulder. “Introductions all around. Joe, Queen… Queen, Joe.”
“Queen? That is your name? And he is Rook? I see now. You are chess pieces. And I must be the king you are meant to protect.”
Rook laughed aloud, and Queen found herself chuckling, not so much at Mulamba’s mistake as at the idea of King needing protection. “Not quite, Mr. President… Joe. But we are going to make sure you get back home safely. No offense, but things have gone completely to shit since you’ve been away.”
“No offense taken.” Mulamba’s elated smile slipped a little. “If I am truthful, things there were completely shit before I left. That is what I have been trying to change.”
Queen nodded, but she was only half-listening. She held a hand to her ear, as if keying a concealed microphone and spoke aloud. “Blue, we need transport to the Congo.”
She was hoping to hear him say that Crescent II was already on the way. At Mach two, they could have Mulamba back in his office in Kinshasa by dinnertime, and that would be the end of it. But Deep Blue never got the chance to say it.
“No!” Mulamba cried. “I cannot go back. Not yet.”
Queen worked her jaw, trying very hard to stay calm. “Mr. President, maybe you didn’t understand what I just said. Your country is on the brink of civil war. If you don’t go back, millions of people will die—your people.”
He shook his head emphatically. “Even I cannot prevent that now. I must go to Belgium.”
“Listen, we just put our asses on the line to get you out of that place back there. Our friends are in your country, knee deep in it so that you’ll have somewhere to go back to. So don’t tell me it’s too late.”
Deep Blue’s voice sounded in her head. “He might not be wrong, Queen. Things have taken a turn for the worse.”
Queen clenched her teeth, but before she could reply to either man, Rook spoke up. “What’s in Belgium? I mean aside from the world’s best waffles.”
Mulamba, evidently excited at the prospect of being able to tell his story, leaned forward, sticking his head over the back of the passenger seat. “In Belgium, I hope to find the truth about what happened on the day that Henry Morton Stanley found Dr. David Livingstone.”
“And why is that so important?”
Mulamba’s voice dropped to a hushed, almost reverent whisper. “Dr. Livingstone found something in his journeys. Something of which the world has no knowledge. Something that will save Africa.”
16
Bishop’s awareness returned in a jumble of disconnected pieces. His perceptions made no sense without the context of memories, which at the moment, were elusive.
Hot, humid air, reeking of rot and smoke… a jungle… Africa. Why?
A dark-skinned woman lay a few feet away… Felice, her name is Felice, but how do I know that? A man lay motionless just beyond her. Knight. Why isn’t he moving? A ringing in his ears from the explosion… Explosion? The mortar shells… Someone had been dropping mortars on them.
The pieces came together in a rush that was almost painful in its urgency. He scrambled up, then almost collapsed as a wave of dizziness washed over him. The head rush, brought on by the effect of gravity pulling blood away from his brain, passed after a moment, and he saw, thirty yards beyond Knight, an enormous crater, still smoking from the shell that had detonated there just a few seconds earlier.
He didn’t know why the attacking force was not still raining hell down on them, but he wasn’t going to wait around for them to realize their mistake. He scooped Felice up with one hand, throwing her over his shoulder like a bag full of laundry, then hoisted Knight onto the other shoulder, and took off running toward the green wall of jungle.