by TR Kohler
An agonizingly slow few seconds before the pain mercifully starts to pull back.
A necessary evil in retrieving his weapons. Items that will be most vital in the coming hours, even if he as yet has no idea exactly how things will play out.
Only that right now, he has to find Anika and the other villagers.
A search that – given the desolation of the scene around him – almost certainly means tracking down Hazik and his personal army.
Remaining bent at the waist, Kidman braces his elbows on his knees. Resisting the urge to plunge his hands into the cool of the damp earth, hoping it will have the effect it just did on the glowing pahoa, he leaves them exposed to the air. The best process for allowing his healing to work, learned through countless previous trials.
A start-to-finish that takes nearly a full two minutes before the raw flesh begins to recede.
Another one after that before his palms return to their previous condition, allowing him to push upright and assess the scene around him.
A scene that now looks no better than it did a couple of minutes before. Or even than Bukari the previous afternoon.
A visual of wanton destruction, performed for no discernible reason other than the fact that it could be.
A hallmark of leaders just like Hazik.
Standing in the center of the small encampment, Kidman turns a slow circle. A sweeping look at the remnants of what was a vibrant and bustling place just hours before.
One that now looks more like a hellscape. A handful of charred and burning structures interspersed with the deep ruts of Jeep tires.
The sight and smell of rising furls of smoke.
Nothing more.
A display that causes the hatred he feels to rise as his gaze lands on his own pack lying in a heap on the ground. What few contents remain are strewn on the ground around it, all of them stripped of their usefulness.
The canteen with a gaping maw in the side of it. T-shirts ripped to shreds.
The satellite phone shot to rubble.
Items he inventories and dismisses in short order, his more immediate focus going to the one thing he doesn’t see. The item that brought him here in the first place.
The folder containing the information on Anika.
“No,” he whispers, jumping the short distance between where he is standing and the pack. A quick burst that ends with him dropping to a knee, sifting through the loose collection.
Hasty rummaging through a mix of tattered objects and mud in search of a shred of paper. An image cast aside.
Something to give him hope that he didn’t just inadvertently widen Hazik’s interest in the villages, taking it from diamonds to the girl with the gift of healing.
“No,” he repeats. “No no no.”
A frantic search that sees him stay on his knees, sweeping his hands across the ground. Heightened tension, anxiety, that continues until interrupted by an all-too-familiar sound.
One that jerks his focus up, eyes widened, lips peeled back in a snarl.
The droning din of a Jeep engine approaching.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Just as surely as Kidman knows the faces of the men piled into the back of the lead Jeep pulling into the charred remains of the village, he recognizes the looks splayed across them.
Unadulterated venom at the sight before them. Eyes narrowed and mouths hooked down into scowls as they stare at the destruction that has befallen the encampment.
Wrathful visages making it clear that they will not hesitate to raise the automatic rifles slung across their torsos at the first sign of movement.
Looks and feelings Kidman knows all too well. The kind that used to well in him while out working with Ma and Doc in the field.
The same now pulsating through him.
The first time he can remember carrying such unbridled wrath in more than twenty years, he cannot claim that the feeling is unwanted. Completely the opposite, in fact, his body taking to it like an unused skill.
Something that is completely natural, held only at bay through force of will.
Tucked away behind the base of the same tree he has twice used to access clear lines of reception for the now-mangled satellite phone, Kidman waits as the pair of Jeeps roll into view. Following the same path as Hazik’s men earlier in the day, they pull up side by side in the center of the small clearing, barely reaching a full stop before men begin to spill out.
A motley band resembling the soldiers from earlier only in the weapons they carry and the anger painting their features.
Otherwise, there is virtually nothing to give a valid comparison.
Everything from the meager clothing they wear to their painfully thin physiques further solidifying everything Anika and Wembo both shared about the realities of life in the Congo.
Bending at the waist, Kidman tugs up the right leg of his pants. Tucking away the cooled blade of the pahoa in the sheath strapped to his calf, he then repeats the process on his left side.
A conscious move to ensure he is not carrying weapons as he rises to full height.
“Hey-o!” he calls, remaining stowed behind the tree, the sound of his voice doing exactly as he expected.
In unison, more than a dozen rifles shoot upward. Fluid movements that bring them parallel to the ground. Tips aimed his direction, one even barking out a single round.
A loud crack that is heard just before the bullet thuds into the base of the tree. A firm impact that sends a spray of wood shards into the mud.
A sound that is kept from growing in kind, headed off by the sharp call of Sanga snapping, “Hold your fire!”
A directive followed up a moment later with a second one, now aimed toward Kidman.
“Show yourself! Now!”
Leading with the empty palm of his right hand, Kidman slowly steps out to the side, one limb at a time.
A slow movement with the responses from the men in the group varying wildly.
Those that he first encountered in Bukari lower their rifles as recognition sets. A reaction that is slower in coming for the others, many remaining in a firing position until Wembo turns to the side, spitting orders at them.
Words too low for Kidman to hear, but have the intended effect, the guns dropping toward the forest floor.
All the sign he needs before jumping himself back to the post he was in just before their arrival. The spot by the scattered remains of his pack, his new placement causing both Sanga and Wembo to turn to face him square.
A move that brings about the same startled reaction it always does from some of the others. Responses Kidman is in no mood for at the moment, his focus on the two men he first met just a day before.
“Hazik,” he begins, stating the obvious.
“He was with them?” Wembo asks.
“Yes,” Kidman answers.
“How many others?” Sanga asks.
Lowering himself into a crouch, Kidman gives the remains of his pack one last check. One final look to confirm what he already knows.
Anything he brought with him is now beyond repair.
“Maybe, two dozen or so,” Kidman answers, rising back to full height. “Roughly half of which I was able to take out before they started shooting.”
Moving a hand about, he motions to the pair of holes in his t-shirt and the leg of his pants. Rough gouges with large splotches of still-wet blood encircling them.
Ones to match the holes ripped into his back as well, the bastards having shot him more than once while he was down.
Both men look to the tears in his clothes before lifting their gaze to the dried blood painting the side of his face. Silent assessments of his injuries and the acrimony now permeating him before flicking their gazes away.
Around them, the remainder of their crew has fanned out. A quick sweep of the place, the bulk of it now nothing more than cinders.
A site that will likely be abandoned, there being nothing left to even attempt rebuilding.
Only bad memories of what too
k place.
“When you say took out...?” Wembo asks softly.
“I mean, they won’t be fighting anymore for a long while,” Kidman replies. Shooting a glance across, he adds, “If ever.”
Where the men are now, he can’t imagine. Loaded up by Hazik and the others and transported away while he was recovering, he would guess.
“The villagers?” Sanga asked.
Feeling the same wrath he has since waking, a jolt of shame is added to the mix. A flush of heat rises to his cheeks as he looks over before turning his attention back to the men conducting their search nearby.
“I don’t know,” he mutters. “Many of them were fleeing into the woods, last I saw. I stayed behind to cover for them, but I don’t know how many made it or how far they got.”
Lowering his focus to his feet, he continues, “They took the file on Anika from my pack. I was just about to go look for her when I heard your Jeeps pull up.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The components of the satellite phone are crushed beyond use. A full-scale destruction that goes beyond the device merely catching a stray bullet. Whoever had inflicted the damage wasn’t interested in merely rendering it incapable of transmitting. Certainly, not of taking it for themselves.
Acting out a fit of rage, they had reduced it to nothing more than rubble.
No way of powering the phone back to life. No chance of seeing a single image on the shattered remnants of the screen, even if he was able to somehow coax it back from the brink.
An obstacle that makes not only the next couple of hours infinitely more difficult, but also brings with it questions about how he and Anika will later make it back to The Ranch.
Concerns that, for the time being, will have to wait.
“Anything?” Sanga asks.
Standing nearby, the stock of his rifle is planted in the soft soil. His hands are balanced across the tip of the barrel.
Behind him, his men are arranged in an uneven group. Eleven in total, many of them are shoveling down whatever remnants of Kidman’s previous food offerings weren’t destroyed by Hazik’s men or the fires.
Meals consisting largely of rice and fruit, the men devouring it with aplomb.
“No,” Kidman says, giving a grim shake of his head before dropping the shattered remains of the phone at his feet.
Thoroughly demolished, even after having put a handful of bullets into him.
“Bastards destroyed damn near everything,” he adds, pulling himself to full height beside Sanga. A pairing that is joined a moment later by Wembo, the three standing in an uneven triangle, taking in the wreckage of the village around them.
“Which means no more supply runs right now,” Kidman continues. Flicking his gaze to each of the men, he finishes, “I have to be able to see where I’m going to jump.”
“Hm,” Sanga replies softly. His gaze traces over his men clustered nearby before moving to the few handfuls of villagers that have drifted back in the last half hour. People either found in the dense rainforest nearby or who made their own way once the immediate danger of Hazik’s men faded.
A decent chunk of the village, including Keicha and Belvie. Even the elderly couple that Kidman grabbed right before the militia came.
Most of the faces Kidman can recall, save the one he is most concerned with.
There being no sign of Anika since he instructed her to go deeper into the woods before heading back the opposite direction. A decision he can’t help but feel responsible for, even if she did claim she would not leave without them.
“This is the third encampment Hazik has burned in the last couple of days,” Sanga says.
More thinking out loud than an actual statement, Kidman is still able to follow the line of thinking. Ferret out the underlying puzzlement. The heavy resignation.
Much like Wembo had intimated the day before, it is his way of saying that this isn’t going to stop. While diamonds might have been his original goal, it has now transitioned.
Angry self-righteousness intent on putting down any sort of resistance. Removing anyone with the temerity to dare stand against what it is he is trying to accomplish.
A move that has now swallowed up Anika, the soldiers Wilson Pruitt sent and now himself all falling under the veil of opposition.
“Where would he take the girl?” Kidman asks.
Moving only his eyes, Sanga glances to Kidman. A pose he holds a moment before nudging his chin toward the rumpled pack on the ground between them.
“Now that he has the file? Knows that she was the target?” he asks. “He’ll retreat back into town. Try to find out what is so special about her, why you have all come so far to find her.”
“He thinks he’s untouchable there,” Wembo adds.
Nodding slightly, Kidman accepts both pieces of information in silence.
Never before has he been all the way into Makoua, but he can’t imagine it being that different from other similar places he’s encountered through the years. Small outposts capable of being overrun by a single warlord. A homogenous setting mired in poverty, easily manipulated.
One not nearly as impenetrable as most people like Hazik seem to think.
“How many others do you have?” Kidman asks, his turn to use his chin to point, motioning to the men nearby.
“Close by?” Sanga asks. “Maybe another ten or twelve.”
He doesn’t add how many more might be squirrelled away deeper in the forest, both of them recognizing they don’t have that kind of time.
Not with Hazik already having Anika and a lengthy head start.
Once more, Kidman sweeps his gaze over the crowd around them. Another quick head count before his focus returns to Sanga and Wembo beside him.
“Can we take Makoua with twenty-four men?”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The image on the computer screen sitting atop Hazik’s desk is grainy at best. A black and white picture being fed in from a closed-circuit camera overlooking the small holding cell in the basement. A low resolution visual most often used for loosely monitoring captives before they are moved – or, more often, removed – from being a concern of the mayor.
Reclined in his leather desk chair, Hazik studies the incoming feed. One elbow propped on the arm of the seat, his chin rests on his knuckles.
Eyes narrowed, he stares at the young girl sitting on the cot in the basement two stories below him.
To look at her, there is absolutely nothing remarkable about the girl. Nothing to signify she is anything more than a common teenager. Someone barely older than a child.
Hardly reason for a team of Americans to come across the world to the Congolese rainforest looking for her.
Or for them to send a man of heightened abilities over later to protect her, seemingly with complete disregard for the team that preceded him.
Even if doing such a thing would render zero results at this point.
Shifting his gaze from the monitor before him, Hazik moves to the file resting atop his desk. The sole thing taken besides the girl herself from the village earlier in the day.
A thin offering stripped of most identifying features, containing only a couple of photos and the most basic of information about the girl.
An item that spurs even more questions within Hazik. Inquiries he has no way of ascertaining the answers to right now, a fact that he can’t pretend doesn’t irritate him.
A feeling he allows to linger as his gaze drifts back to the screen, interrupted only by the sound of a knock at his door. A sharp, clear tap that stops the ongoing back-and-forth between the file and the screen, drawing his attention across the room.
“What?” he snaps, raising his voice loud enough to be heard throughout the entire second floor of the building.
A volume that seems to have no effect on Fumu as he steps inside, presenting himself just past the threshold into the room.
“The blockades are set, sir.”
Nodding slightly, Hazik feels some of the annoyance from
a moment prior bleed away. A result of a conscious shift as he considers what was just shared. Other concerns that need his attention, some much more pressing than any curiosity he might have about the girl.
“Which roads?” he asks.
“All of them,” Fumu replies, “as instructed.”
“And the other thing?”
“Also, up and rolling,” Fumu answers. “It is currently on the south end but is working north as we speak. Should be in an operational position within the hour.”
One corner of his mouth curling up slightly, Hazik nods.
After what was done to Bukari and the pair of smaller outposts, he can’t imagine that whatever remains of the rebels won’t be looking to strike back directly. Misguided angst that will push them out of their fortified position and across open ground into the city.
A shooting gallery that he is more than ready for, it now only a matter of waiting.
“Good,” he whispers, letting various images of how things are about to play out roll through his mind. Vivid snapshots of his impending victory that cause the smile to grow larger before being cast aside.
A quick shake of the head as he stands, shooting one more glance to the screen beside him.
“That should give us a few minutes to go talk to our new guest before her friends arrive.”
Chapter Sixty
The Jeep carrying Kidman and Sanga is already in position long before the others roll up along either side. With Wembo sitting behind the wheel, they are parked with the front bumper hidden just inside the dense tree line of the rainforest.
A post they volunteered for, driving ahead to scout out Makoua while the other Jeep was sent in a quick loop through the other nearby villages to rally some more of Sanga’s men.
An effort that looks to have doubled the original mass, adding two additional Jeeps as well. A total crowd coming in at just over Sanga’s original guess of two dozen men, all carrying weaponry ranging from rifles to homemade spears.
Not an overwhelming force by any stretch, Kidman hoping that the combination of cover of darkness, surprise, and sheer desire will be enough to overcome whatever awaits before them.
