by TR Kohler
Standing in the rear of the lead Jeep, Kidman’s forearms rest against the exposed roll bar across the top of the frame. By his side stands Sanga, body fixed in a similar position.
Between them rests a pair of AK-47s. Remainder pieces well past their prime that will be wielded by the two men sharing the vehicle with him in the coming battle.
“You were a soldier? In America?” Sanga asks without glancing over.
A question that gives Kidman pause, taking a moment before responding.
For twenty years now, he has grappled with a variant of what Sanga just asked. Decades spent basically in hiding, trying to keep what he is capable of from view, what he has done from mind.
A perpetual state of motion meant to keep himself busy and to keep various thoughts and images from popping up.
Flashbacks or nightmares that always arrive from nowhere, leaving him breathless in their wake. Scenes from moments just like this one, out in the field with Ma and Doc and the others by his side.
Times when he was nothing more than a boy, brought along because of a very specific talent that only he possessed.
Or so he has been telling himself all this time.
“Of sorts, yes,” Kidman replies.
A response that earns no comment. No sign of it even being heard save Sanga casting him a sideways glance. A lingering look, his eyes flashing in the darkness.
Words left unspoken, the insinuation clear.
“I was never in the military itself,” Kidman adds, “but I was part of a team. A small group of people like me that was sent to places nobody was supposed to know about.”
Still nowhere near the complete story, Kidman pauses there. An answer Sanga seems content with as he turns his focus back to face forward.
“You?” Kidman asks.
A question that draws a light snort from Wembo seated behind the wheel.
“This is the Congo,” he mutters. “Most of us have been fighting since we were born.” Left wrist hanging over the wheel, he twists around to glance up at Kidman. “Men like Hazik. Other invaders. Other villagers. Even the animals that we share the rainforest with.”
Never has Kidman heard such a thing put so bluntly before, though he cannot argue it is incorrect. Perhaps the most self-aware assessment he’s ever heard, it isn’t that different from a lot of places he’s been before.
Skills imparted through the crucible of time and circumstance.
Nodding slightly in understanding, he fixes his gaze to the south. Eyes narrowed, he can see the menagerie of orange and yellow lights comprising Makoua. Clearly visible beneath the darkened night sky, they look closer than he knows them to actually be.
A consideration they are all well aware of, that being one of the key concerns of their working plan.
If what they have can even be called such a thing.
“Time?” Kidman asks.
Left wrist balanced across the top bar before him, Sanga rolls it back. A quick glance to the face of it before saying, “Ready when you are.”
Leaning back at the waist, Kidman peers past Sanga to the other Jeeps idling quietly nearby. Back ends both bursting with men, the instant he is away, a few will spill over to fill his spot.
From there, they will wait exactly two minutes before breaking to the south. An all-out sprint from their current hiding spot into Makoua.
A charge across open ground resembling something from the Revolutionary or Civil Wars.
A working plan entirely predicated on Kidman getting to the city and taking out any roadblocks or gunners stationed along the main road.
“One central entrance from the north,” Kidman says. One last verbal pass through the checklist in his head. Places and things he’s never seen in person, trusting the information of Sanga gathered through dozens of roving patrols the last few weeks.
Strike attacks along the outskirts.
More scouting missions than anything else, meant to get a feel for the lay of the city and how Hazik might protect it.
“I’ll start there,” Kidman continues. “Once that’s clear, I’ll move to the secondary entry on the northeast corner of town.”
A location meant to serve as an exit point. A place of quick retreat if things go irrevocably sideways after breach.
As he talks through it, Kidman takes a step back. A move toward the rear of the vehicle, giving him the space to bend down. Lifting either pant leg, he draws the pahoas from their sheaths before rising to full height.
Beside him, Wembo and Sanga both watch in silence. Mouths pulled into tight lines, they appear to be feeding off the adrenaline seeping into his system.
A palpable charge in the air, sufficient to power all three. Bring them ever closer to a conclusion that for Kidman has been inching forward since his arrival just a day and a half before.
A headlong sprint that was always going to come to something like this, whether he realized it when accepting the case or not.
For the two men beside him, he can’t even imagine how long it has been going on. If what Wembo just said is true, virtually all of their lives. A constant battle to protect their homes and ways of life, Hazik just being the latest to try and intrude.
“You ready?” Sanga asks.
Fists tightening around the handles of his knives, Kidman mutters, “Give the signal.”
On cue, Sanga raises a hand into the air. Twirling it above his head, a low murmur goes up from the other Jeeps.
The anticipation of a fight setting in. A palpable electricity Kidman hasn’t felt in ages.
Certainly, never from a group so large there by his side, this one nearly five times the previous team he worked with.
Not that he still wouldn’t prefer for the Ma or Doc of old to be with him now.
“Two minutes,” he says, his focus shifting forward. A quick scan to pick out his landing spot. “Then come like hell.”
Chapter Sixty-One
The first jump carries Kidman about halfway to Makoua. A conscious choice not to put himself directly on one of the lights shining like beacons to the edge of the forest where he was hidden. To go slow and get a clear visual of where he is headed to protect himself and - more importantly - to not blow the cover of Sanga and the others coming in just a couple minutes.
A choice that cuts against every ingrained inclination he has, wanting nothing more than to spring straight into Hazik’s mansion and go room by room until finding Anika.
That, too, being a route cast aside in the name of protecting others, such a move only serving to likely get her killed.
Landing on an uneven patch of ground that he walked across with the man he is about to raid just two days earlier, he pauses only long enough to sight in on his next destination before leaping again. A second jump that cuts the remaining distance by half.
Two measured hops meaning to accommodate for the unknown terrain and darkness as well as scout for any outlying defenses that Hazik may have put in place.
Blockades or outposts that don’t appear to exist, his forces instead concentrated right along the outskirts of town.
A decision that Kidman concedes could be due to limited forces. Having met Hazik personally though, having heard the many stories about the man, he is willing to bet it is something far less pragmatic. More likely, a testament to the man’s hubris and belief that he is untouchable well within the confines of the city.
Even if he is now down a dozen men after Kidman’s work earlier in the day.
Well aware of the seconds ticking steadily by, Kidman pauses for only a moment. A quick stop just over a couple of hundred yards from the edge of Makoua to do a quick assessment. A fast scan to ensure that the information discussed with Sanga is accurate.
That they are not all about to roll directly into a trap.
Knees buried in the dry sand of the terrain beyond the edge of the rainforest, he is careful to remain low to the ground. Avoid making himself a visible silhouette to anybody looking out.
A pose he maintains just long
enough to confirm that there is but a single entrance into the city from the north. A sole way for the fighters behind him to roll in with their Jeeps.
A path that is currently being obstructed by a blockade of vehicles and wooden slats.
To say nothing of the small handful of soldiers standing watch as well.
Men that have no idea what is about to befall them.
The final jump in his journey takes him from his post in the sand to the front of the Jeep turned sideways across the road. The centerpiece of the impromptu blockade, the vehicle taking up a decent chunk of the horizontal space. Wide enough that a reinforced line of sandbags and wooden slats is sufficient to cover the remainder.
A total gap of fifteen feet or so, patrolled by a quartet of men. Two that are posted atop the pile of wood and sandbags, both seated with their feet hanging down. Boots lifted several inches from the ground, rifles rest against the blockade they are perched on.
A third guard leans against the opposite wall. Head tilted down, his chin is lowered almost to his chest, appearing as if he might be asleep standing up.
Three men that don’t so much as notice as Kidman lands amidst them.
Not even as he appears behind the fourth man in the group. The one with the misfortune to actually be doing his job, standing with a rifle gripped in both hands. Staring out at the road ahead, he is the only one that is a threat in any way.
The clear choice for where to start as Kidman cups one hand over the man’s mouth, using the other to drive a pahoa into the small of his back.
A quick, silent attack taking only nominally less time than the next three in order.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Up close, the girl is just as unremarkable as she appeared on the computer monitor. Slight of build, she sits on the edge of the cot with her knees drawn to her chest. Arms wrapped around them, she grips one wrist with her opposite hand.
Most of her face hidden behind the dried mud plastered to her bare knees, only her dark hair and eyes are visible as she openly looks back at him.
A stare that is perhaps the sole thing that grabs Hazik’s attention.
Not on account of her youth.
But because despite it, she seems to hold absolutely no fear about her surroundings or the man before her.
“Anika Purna,” he begins. A litmus test to see if she’ll flinch at being addressed directly. If she is surprised that he knows who she is.
Neither of which comes to pass as she continues staring at him, completely impassive.
“Your skin tone informs me you are not from around here,” he continues. “Your name tells me...India? Perhaps, Pakistan?”
Whether either of those are remotely true, Hazik does not know. Could not begin to care either way. His only goal in stating such a thing is to get her talking.
Draw her out from whatever shell she might be in, breaking the silence so he can ask what he really wants to know.
A goal that takes nearly a full minute before arrival as the girl eventually unlocks her grip from her opposite wrist. Slowly lowering her feet to the floor, she stands, rising almost to eye level with him.
“Hazik,” she replies. “A man whose title informs me is the mayor of Makoua, but his actions tell me he sees himself as the next warlord of the Congo.”
The response seeming to come from far afield, Hazik’s brows rise. A slight jolt of surprise, there and gone in an instant before the words truly resonate with him and shock gives way to anger.
Hot, venomous wrath that rises from within, tapping into the same hostility that has been roiling for days. A cauldron that began with the arrival of the Americans, by extension meaning it all stems from her.
The young woman that seems completely unaware of her surroundings or her place.
“Says a child that willingly spends her time playing in the rainforest,” he replies. “I would expect nothing less.”
“Says a dictator whose messes I’ve been out there cleaning up,” she says. “I would expect nothing less.”
Taking a half step closer, Hazik squares himself to the metal cage before him. Hands on his hips, his molars come together. Rage simmers within him as he stares at the girl, bringing with it the desire to reach to his hip.
Unsnap the sidearm he is carrying.
Point it directly through the bars to see the ensuing fear it creates.
Perhaps even unload a couple of well-aimed shots. Bullets to the feet or knees, knocking the haughty child down where she belongs.
“Who are you?” Hazik manages to get out through gritted teeth. “Why are you here?”
Matching his prior movement, the girl pushes closer to the bars. Moving until only a few inches separates them, she keeps her gaze focused on his.
A defiant stance, meant to make a point.
One that only causes the simmering hatred he feels to rise.
“You already know who I am,” she replies. “And I just told you why I’m here.”
Again, Hazik feels his prior urges rise. The strong desire to grab for his weapon and begin firing. To simply work his way up the length of her torso, tugging back on the trigger until nothing is left.
Much the way he nearly did on her long-haired companion earlier in the day.
“Why were the Americans sent to find you?” he pushes out.
“Were?” the girl replies, one corner of her mouth pulling back in a smile. “I think you have the wrong tense there.”
Hazik’s turns to smile, he offers her a wan grin. A mirthless smirk, his head shaking slightly. “No, I don’t. The soldiers that were sent for you are gone. As is the man that came after. Your jumpy friend with the long hair.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I shot him myself,” Hazik replies. His smile grows larger as he steps forward again. Close enough that the bars separating them almost touch his skin. “Multiple times.”
A statement that is meant to crush her resolve, drive out some of the self-righteousness she possesses, Hazik watches as it does neither.
As the smile she wears grows larger, culminating with her taking a step back.
And then another.
“You should get ready,” she says. “He isn’t dead. And he’ll be here soon.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
The first blockade took a few seconds longer than Kidman anticipated. Not in disposing of the guards that were posted there, the combination of surprise and his own animosity making them easy targets. Men that were barely even aware of his presence before he used the pahoas to finish them.
The problem was withdrawing the decrepit Jeep serving as the centerpiece of their roadblock to life. An ancient rig that was likely pulled to where it was positioned, it seemed like the damned thing hadn’t been started in years.
An assumption supported by the rough gasps of the ignition on Kidman’s first attempt to turn the key.
Confirmed once he got the vehicle started, the thing managing to make it just a few feet before the engine died, rolling backward only to the edge of the street before shuddering to a stop.
The absolute bare minimum required, clearing just enough of a path to allow Sanga and his men to pass through.
Knowing that it took much longer than anticipated, Kidman is also aware that they are already on their way toward Makoua. Having sped out from the cover of the rainforest, they are bearing down on the city, hurtling themselves as fast as the uneven road and the decrepit vehicles they are in will provide for.
An approach that, even with lights off, will no doubt draw attention soon enough.
Somewhere, a guard or someone staring out the window or even Hazik himself will spot the convoy headed their way.
Making it all the more paramount that Kidman get to the second blockade as fast as he can. Take out a few more of the guards, but also clear a secondary access point for Sanga and his men. A place they can swing around and flank on approach, or speed through and make a hasty retreat if necessary.
The blades of his pahoas s
lick with blood flashing beneath the streetlights, Kidman works his way with abandon through the outer streets of Makoua. Quick jumps from one point to the next punctuated by momentary pauses to see his next destination.
One rooftop to the next, risking the chance of being spotted on high to afford himself a better view. A way of monitoring both the streets below and pick out his next destination.
A combination that allows him to cover the distance between the two access points in less than a minute. Sufficiently short to still be feeding off the initial surge of adrenaline as he crouches on a brick ledge looking down at his next target.
At a glance, the setup looks much like the one he just left. A combination of wood and sandbags and vehicles used to completely seal off the roadway.
Upon closer inspection though, it is apparent that the fortifications on hand are much stiffer than those a few blocks behind. A more permanent arrangement meant to funnel all traffic through the primary access going due north.
Out front, the hedge of sandbags and wooden implements stretches the entire breadth of the street. An expanse nearly twenty feet across, leaving only narrow gaps on either end. Brief openings for the guards stationed there to enter or exit on foot only.
A detachment also larger than at his previous stop, five men covering this one. Three spaced equally along the length of the barricade.
Two more placed in the backs of the pair of Jeeps pulled up behind the blockade. Each posed like the machine gunners Kidman first encountered in Bukari, they stare out, vigilantly searching for any incoming opponent.
A group much more attuned to their surroundings, by virtue of either having not heard a word from the northern outpost or simply being much better at their job.
Options that matter to Kidman only so much as in how to best approach.
Starting with the most perilous of the five men stationed below, Kidman puts his aim on the closer of the two machine gunners. Anticipating using a form of a Superman punch learned during his stint in Canada, he draws one of the pahoas back to his shoulder. Leaping from his perch high above, he hangs suspended in the air a brief moment, relishing the feeling of freefall, the anticipation of contact, before jumping himself the remainder of the distance.
