by TR Kohler
A drop that adds the weight of gravity to the blow he lands, plunging the blade of his knife down in a wicked punch.
A cleaving blow that cuts right through the man, his body going limp before he even realizes what has occurred.
Dropping hard atop the man’s crumpled form, Kidman absorbs the shock of the landing. A brief jolt up through the soles of his boots as the shocks on the Jeep are depressed before springing back the opposite direction.
A small lift that gives Kidman just the angle he needs before jumping across into the other Jeep.
A sudden movement that is complete unexpected, the man there barely starting to turn. A reflexive response to what just happened, he snaps the front of his weapon toward the neighboring Jeep.
A completely natural reaction.
One that Kidman is anticipating, jumping to the spot on the far side of him. A vantage that leaves the man’s entire backside exposed, allowing Kidman to lash out with a quick snap kick to the rear of the man’s knee.
A shot that causes his left leg to buckle, his body pitching forward. The same knee going to the metal floor of the Jeep, his head rises just past Kidman’s waist.
Making it almost too easy as Kidman grabs him by the back of the skull, mashing his forehead into the top of the vehicle’s body frame.
A quick, hard shot that has the same reaction as the blow to his friend, his form going limp on contact.
Meaning he can provide absolutely no opposition as Kidman rips the machine gun he was holding from his grasp. Dropping the pahoas by his feet, he snaps the gun up to waist height and pulls back on the trigger.
A fully automatic weapon running wide open as he sweeps it across the blockade, clearing away any remaining guards.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Having spent his entire life in the Congo, the sound of gunfire is something Hazik has long since dismissed. Background noise that most times fails to even register. Rebels or marauders making their way toward the city. His own military forces keeping some interloper at bay.
Small pops in the deep recesses of his brain, rarely worth the effort to identify.
Tucked away beside the holding cells in the basement of the mansion, hardly could their sound even be heard.
Making the thunderous roar of what came next that much more obvious. A pulsating boom that made the walls to either side tremble, wisps of dust and sand seeping from between a few of the bricks.
A sound that jerked Hazik’s focus toward the door just in time to see Fumu pulling a two-way radio from his hip. Drawing it to his lips, he mashes on the button along the side, his fingers flexed as he grips it before him.
“Status update, now!” he barks.
Releasing his hold on the receiver button, he pauses a moment before squeezing it a second time. “Somebody, tell me what the hell is going on out there!”
For a moment, there is no response. No reply save the sound of fuzz coming in over the radio. Static noise that has Hazik’s complete attention, only torn away by the smirk of the girl beside him.
“Told you,” she says.
Two words that causes Hazik’s jaw to clench as he slides his attention back her way. Loathing filling him, he watches as she takes two steps closer, grabbing hold of the rails separating them.
Mouth twisted up into a smirk, it appears she is about to speak again, cut off by the sound of the radio in Fumu’s hand. A sudden break from the monotonous white noise, replaced with men yelling. The staccato of automatic weapons fire.
“Rebels! From the rainforest!” a man yells, his voice verging into hysteria. “They took out the northern blockade, just blew the northeastern one sky high!”
Pulling the radio away from his face, Fumu says nothing. He doesn’t even glance over to Hazik before bolting from the room. A pace that verges on sprinting as he exits, the sound of his footsteps receding heard for several seconds before disappearing entirely.
A move to get upstairs. Get out onto the balcony and acquire a clear view into the surrounding city. A place where he can see out, directing his forces where to be.
A central location that Hazik has told him not to vacate, needing him nearby in the thin chance that the mob from the rainforest actually breaks through.
Standing and staring at the empty doorway through which Fumu just passed, Hazik stands completely still. Rooted in place, he listens, waiting for another explosion. The sound of Fumu returning.
Anything that gives him some idea of what is playing out above.
A trance interrupted not by the sound of another impending attack, but from the girl beside him again deciding to offer her opinion. Unwanted and unsolicited commentary on what is occurring.
“And you thought he was dead...”
Still facing the doorway through which Fumu departed, Hazik blinks himself out of his reverie. Back into the moment, his ire for the child spiking ever higher.
A complete loathing that ends with him drawing his weapon and pointing it through the gaps in the bars, directly between her widened eyes.
“Upstairs. Now.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Landing back in the same spot he was standing not ten minutes earlier, Kidman’s sudden appearance causes Sanga to jerk his attention to the side. A spastic reaction steeped entirely in muscle memory.
Reflexive energy causing him to snap the front tip of his rifle to the side, the barrel making it a complete sweep in the narrow confines of the rear of the Jeep before Kidman is able to place a palm across it.
“Easy,” he says, the sound of his voice taking away a bit of the edge on Sanga’s features.
A moment later, full recognition sets in as he slides his gaze back to peer out at the town of Makoua whipping by.
With it goes the front tip of his weapon, resting on the top rail of the frame before him.
“Any problems?” Kidman asks. Turning over a shoulder, he sees there is still one Jeep keeping pace with them, the other having peeled off. Spreading through the city, looking for other targets or blockades.
“So far, so good,” Sanga replies. “You?”
The remains of the bag of explosives he used to blow the second blockade still in hand, Kidman raises it for Sanga to see. In unison, a wicked smile graces his features.
“Had to improvise a little to clear that second one.”
“Ha! I knew that was you!” Wembo says from behind the wheel, white teeth flashing as he casts a quick glance back. “I guarantee you they did not see that coming.”
Enough to draw a chuckle from Kidman and Sanga both, the two men remain braced in the rear of the Jeep, the vehicle tearing through the narrow streets of the town. Moving at a rate just shy of dangerous, they bounce over the cobbled stone, working their way toward the city center.
A headlong rush to make good on the narrow head start they’ve been granted. A finite window that appears to be closing, vehicles popping up in their periphery.
Speed climbing well above thirty, the resulting breeze flattens Kidman’s clothes against him. His hair blows out behind him, suspended perpendicular to his body.
For the first time since arriving, he doesn’t seem to be sweating, the incoming air enough to keep him cool as he leans forward across the roll bar. Weapons in hand, he practically wills the vehicle forward, waiting for his target to come into sight.
“Do you know where we’re going?” he calls, his voice elevated to be heard over the air rushing by.
A question that warrants another glance from Wembo, even as they slalom through the jagged streets. A riding experience only nominally better than bouncing through the jungle earlier, the road uneven and pockmarked with ruts and potholes.
“That way,” Wembo replies, motioning to his right. A vague gesture that ends with a flutter of fingers before his hand returns to the wheel.
“The militia caught on pretty quick,” Sanga says. With a smile, he adds, “We also had to improvise.”
Matching the grin, Kidman peels his focus off to the right. Peering
at the structures moving by in a blur, he scans the length of alleys and streets running perpendicular to them. Roadways coming alive with movement, headlamps and the occasional pop of muzzle flashes igniting the night.
Opposition forces, enough to cause Sanga to turn from his post. Whirling a hand above his head, he points off to the south, ordering the Jeep behind them deeper into the city.
A second split of the forces, meant to spread Hazik’s men as much as possible. Draw them away from the mayor’s residence serving as the central landmark.
A move that is responded to instantly, the glare of headlights behind them disappearing.
A welcomed change that plunges them into near darkness as they continue hurtling forward. Working their way down the eastern part of the city. Covering several more blocks before reaching the major east-west thoroughfare of Makoua.
The crosspiece to the road that first brought them down out of the rainforest. A roadway blocked not by a barricade, but by a vehicle sitting right in the middle of the street less than four blocks away.
Cause enough for Wembo to slam on the brakes.
“Is that a tank?!” Kidman calls as the tires skid across the loose dirt and stone of the road. Backend swinging to either side, he clamps down onto the frame around him, Sanga doing the same by his side.
Mirrored stances as Wembo jerks the wheel hand over hand, moving them down a side street. A narrow passageway barely large enough for the Jeep to fit through, more a walking path than an actual road.
Though, still a vastly preferable option to what was staring at them before.
A route Wembo continues on for nearly a hundred yards before pulling the vehicle to a stop. Foot jammed on the brake, he turns in the front seat to regard his cohorts, his face shiny with sweat as he sits panting.
“Suggestions?” he asks.
Chapter Sixty-Six
If the view down through the narrow gap afforded by the ladder hatch is any indicator, Kidman guesses that the building below is a church of some sort. A place of worship arranged in the standard manner with an altar and pulpit up front and rows of pews stretched out before it.
A layout that is near universal, even if the particular furnishings in this place are much older than most he’s seen.
Not that the particular usage of the building has anything to do with his being here, his selection based entirely on needing a vantage point. A place where he can look down on the tank rolling slowly through the street and have a clear line of sight for his approach.
A purpose that he suspects will be fulfilled any moment now as he stares down at the street below. A barren stretch that the tank should be entering at any moment, its previous path and the persistent rumble of its treads hinting that it is growing ever closer.
The best answer he could come up with to Wembo’s question just a moment before.
Sack of the remaining explosives in his left hand, Kidman waits with a pahoa gripped in his right. One haunch balanced on the ledge of the window carved into the side of the rectory, he keeps his chin tilted down, counting off seconds, waiting for his unsuspecting opponent to roll into sight.
In his periphery, he can see pops of light continuing to ignite across the night sky. Ongoing firefights breaking out between Sanga’s men and the soldiers guarding the town. Small skirmishes that hint the forces from both sides have spread across the entirety of Makoua.
A wide arc fanned out around the palatial home standing in the center of it.
The site that Kidman can’t help but notice from his current perch just a half dozen blocks away, every light in the house aglow. A beacon that only a man like Hazik would set out, practically daring intruders to come near.
Kidman’s designs being just that as soon as the tank he is currently waiting for rolls into view.
Much closer to a World War relic than anything he’s ever actually encountered in battle before, how the thing even ended up in the Congo is beyond him. One of many questions from the last couple of days he’d rather not bother with.
Instead, his focus goes to the front tip of the tank gun as it passes beneath him. The main armament on such a vehicle, this one looks to be designed for lobbing explosive shells.
Enormous rounds that would make quick work of any of the structures throughout the town.
The sack and the knife both held tight, Kidman forces himself to remain inert as the gun moves slowly by. As it eventually gives way to the front edge of the body of the vehicle, a pair of firing ports coming into view.
Small openings to either side of the tank gun, shooters filling the slots. Men with AKs held before them, ready to shoot at anything that moves.
Targets that he allows to roll past, waiting for the top hatch to reveal itself. The main opening, giving him the optimal placement for dropping the remainder of the explosives in hand.
A handful of grenades, lifted from the guards at the second checkpoint, used to eliminate the wall of sandbags blocking the entrance.
The start of what he hopes will be a chain reaction as he reaches down inside the sack. Grabbing for one of the items tucked inside, he pulls it free and clutches it in hand.
Depressing the spoon, he slides the pin from it, counting out the last couple of seconds.
Precious inches before the full top hatch reveals itself to him.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Kidman can still feel the heat from the fiery pyre of the tank as he lands on the second-floor balcony of the mayor’s mansion. Singeing the cotton hem of his shirt and warming the seat of his pants, it causes his skin to tingle with sensation.
A feeling that heightens the pounding of the adrenaline within him as he balances himself on the brick railing encasing the second story of the home. Knees both bent into a squat, a pahoa is still gripped in one hand as he extracts the matching knife from the opposite sheath.
A perch that renders him looking like a gargoyle, framed by the towering inferno behind him.
A pose that was not at all planned, but has the intended effect on the people he finds waiting there for him. A trio of individuals, everything about them as different as can be.
Standing in the interior of the home are the two people Kidman is here for. Anika, posted in the center of the open doorway, looking much the same as she did the last time he saw her.
A little muddier. Her hair a bit more mussed.
Overall, though, she is alive and well. A state of being that grants Kidman momentary relief as he slides his focus over to the side. Less than three feet over to the man that he met along the road from Makoua to the rainforest just a day before.
A stretch of time that does not seem possible, so much having occurred in the short expanse since.
Having swapped out the civilian attire of an elected official for what he thinks someone in his current role is supposed to wear, his bottom half is covered in camouflage pants and combat boots. Up top is a plain black t-shirt.
In his hand is a nickel-plated handgun, the bright finish on it flashing as he raises it to shoulder level.
A visual that is there and gone in an instant, blocking any chance of Kidman making the jump.
Cut off by the third person present swinging shut the oversized doors leading from the interior of the place to the balcony where Kidman currently rests. A man he has spotted a couple of times already, both in Bukari and in the smaller outpost village hours before.
Someone he would recognize readily even if he hadn’t already encountered him as the leader of Hazik’s little military regime.
The middle-aged man with dark skin and a thin beard encasing his jawline. The ill-fitting uniform cinched tight around his waist, despite the weather in the Congo being far too hot for such an ensemble.
A look completed by a two-way radio in one hand. A revolver to match Hazik’s in the other.
Two items that combined don’t have a chance of saving him from what is about to happen.
A beating that would be infinitely worse if not for the fact that Kidman’
s driving motivation at the moment is on getting through the door behind the man. Pushing inside and neutralizing Hazik before he can harm Anika.
A realization the man seems to make at the same time, the first movement from either of them being a twitch of the man’s right hand. An initial inkling of trying to lift the gun to fire.
An action that is cut off before it really even begins as Kidman jumps from his perch on the ledge to the open swath of balcony immediately to the right of the man. Optimal position for two quick slashes with the pahoas.
One to either side of the man’s elbow, severing the tendons that operate the entire lower arm. Strikes that cause everything from the cuts down to go limp, the gun sliding from his grasp.
Bright metal clattering to the floor, joined by a healthy swath of blood droplets dappling the Spanish tile.
Kidman’s own take on his Lua training, combining the basic combat principles with the weapons in his hands. A concept he pushes even further by hopping immediately to the other side.
Taking advantage of the man’s focus, his entire weight, listing toward his injured arm, Kidman drops down, attacking his exposed left knee. Precision cuts that snap the tensile strength of the man’s internal support system.
Leave nothing but balance and gravity to keep him upright as he sways in place, his leg reduced to little more than a support strut. Barely able to keep himself upright, he offers a weak swing at Kidman. A looping left hook that doesn’t have enough behind it to even bother jumping away from.
Instead, Kidman simply ducks. He lets it carry the man’s weight forward, pitching him even farther off-balance, before stepping in behind him. One hand to the collar of his uniform jacket, the other grasps him by the belt.
