The sky was shifting into a leaden gray, stars melting into the coming light. It was almost time.
Morgan found the raiding party painting their faces red. “They are getting ready for battle,” said Honoré, dipping his fingers into a clay bowl of red paint, making a mark like fire rising up from the scar on his lip. Morgan followed suit by rubbing one thick swipe across his eyes. The paint smelled of butter and iron.
Dimka emerged from the forest. “The time has come. Lead the team. The rest will move as we planned. We are counting on you.”
Morgan surveyed the raiding party, faces painted red, powerful bodies brimming with energy. He took the lead of his raiding party, with Honoré behind the ten others. They moved single-file down toward the house. They made it within sight of the perimeter wall under cover of forest when they spotted the first sentry.
Morgan held up a fist to indicate for the squad to stop. The sentry was moving in from their left, looking into the dark jungle, where he did not see his approaching death. Morgan waited for him to pass, knife in hand, and bounded out from behind a tree. His strides cracked leaves and branches underfoot, but it was too late for the sentry to react. Morgan plunged the knife into his neck. He collapsed.
Signaling for one of the men to take the guard’s Uzi, Morgan scanned the trees growing near the perimeter wall. The wall itself was built out of brick, topped with ceramic roof tiles. He found the perfect spot—a tree that grew diagonally against the wall, with a convenient bough to serve as a foothold. He climbed over, dropping down on the other side.
The camp of soldiers was on their left. They kept as far right as they could while still remaining under the cover of the trees. The whole area was silent and still. The men moved on light feet until they reached the edge of the forest, where tree cover trailed off. Now was the most dangerous part. They had to run one hundred feet out in the open to the trucks, parked in a loose triangular formation.
The two guards were circling the trucks, unaware of the invaders, holding automatic rifles pointing at the ground. Morgan waited until both were out of sight and then ran forward, feet pounding the loose dirt, closing the gap in ten seconds flat.
Winding between the trucks, he circled back around the first, slitting a guard’s throat. Then he rolled under another truck, slashing at the passing guard’s Achilles tendons. The guard dropped to the ground, too surprised to emit more than a yelp. When he hit the ground, Morgan was ready with the knife.
He signaled to Honoré, and the other nine men of the raiding party moved across the open space single file to the trucks.
The man holding the satchel of dynamite passed it to Morgan, who climbed into the back of the nearest truck, shielded from view of the camp. He examined the crate of guns, cheap wood painted green. The wood had splintered where the nail had held the lid tight.
This crate had been opened. All of them had. He set the satchel down and pulled open the lid.
It was empty.
Morgan didn’t hear the approach of the men who surrounded them. By the time he looked up, they were already there—thirty of Madaki’s soldiers, in their ratty civilian clothing, armed with a brand-new arsenal of Colt AR-15 tactical carbines.
“Laisse tomber tes armes!”
Honoré looked at Morgan for leadership.
Resistance was suicide.
“Do it, Honoré. Tell the men to drop their weapons.”
Morgan tossed his Star 30M on the muddy ground. The other guns clattered as the rest of the raiding party let go of theirs.
Only then did he allow himself to be seen. The tall, pale man in the graphite suit, face like a skull. Mr. White, next to a man in military fatigues and a beret who could only be Stéphane Madaki.
“Bevelacqua, isn’t it?” said White. “Fancy meeting you here.”
On seeing Madaki, Honoré screamed with rage and went for his dropped AK-47. Madaki was quicker. He fired a single shot from his sidearm. Honoré fell forward onto the mud, a bullet in his chest. Morgan looked down at him, inhaling short, shallow breaths, eyes wide, life draining out of him.
Madaki barked orders at his men, and they prodded Honoré’s raiding party into the basement of the house, to be tortured for information.
White pulled Morgan out of the line. “Not you. You’re coming with me.”
They marched him into the decrepit mansion. Morgan had crossed the door into the foyer when the windows rattled with the force of an explosion, followed by two more. Madaki’s bodyguard pushed him to the ground, covering him.
Morgan strained to look out the window, where smoke was rising at the perimeter wall.
“They won’t save you,” said White. “They’ll never reach the house.”
With that, a cellar door swung open and at least a hundred men poured out, wielding the new AR-15s.
Morgan was yanked toward the stairs by Madaki’s bodyguard, a near seven-foot-tall hulk of bone, muscle, and fat. Outside, the gunmen opened fire on Dimka’s rebels.
Chapter 50
The fist hit Morgan in the face like lead. The room whirled and dots swam before his eyes. They resolved into the face of Mr. White.
“Who do you work for?”
Morgan spat blood on the dusty hardwood floor of the mansion.
They were in a second-floor living room, where Madaki sat on an old solid wooden chair like a king on a throne. Two men carrying automatic rifles stood guard at the door. Madaki and White were watching the battle rage outside through broad windows, with half the panes missing and the remaining ones cracked.
Madaki had sent a battalion of his men with the new AR-15s to hold a few miles away. They waited for Dimka’s troops to breach the perimeter and then moved against them in the jungle, while the group that had come from the cellar fought them on the property. Dimka’s men were stuck fighting on two fronts.
They were getting massacred.
“This little rebellion won’t last long,” said White. “With their new weapons, Mr. Madaki’s men are unstoppable.”
“Kill him and have it over with,” said Madaki. The warlord was shorter than Morgan had expected, with a snub nose on a chubby cherub’s face.
“This man found me twice,” said White. “I need to know who sent him.”
With a signal from White, Madaki’s bodyguard swung his fist again. It sunk into Morgan’s gut. He spat up blood.
“This is a waste of time,” said Madaki.
“What do you propose I do?”
Madaki pulled out a straight razor from his pocket and held it out, open, for White. “Use the knife. You will see how fast he talks when parts of him start coming off.”
White looked at the blade with distaste. Madaki extended it to his bodyguard instead, who took it and ran his finger along the edge. The warlord stood up and grabbed Morgan by the scruff on his shirt, dragging him to the window.
“See how your people die,” he said.
The land was strewn with bodies. The rebel soldiers had opted to move inside the perimeter wall, rallying at a defensive position in the ruin of a chapel. They found cover there from Madaki’s gunmen, but the latter were moving in with overwhelming automatic fire. It wouldn’t be long until Dimka’s forces were all dead.
The massive bodyguard pulled Morgan back and, with a meaty hand on his neck, pinned him against a wall. He brought the open razor against the base of Morgan’s ear.
White stepped forward. “Are you really going to make me do this?”
Morgan tried to speak, but couldn’t with the bodyguard’s hand blocking his windpipe. White gestured and the bodyguard eased his grip. Morgan only just got the words out in a raspy, guttural voice.
“No. I’m not.”
Morgan kicked the bodyguard’s leg and they heard the sickening crack of bone. The razor clattered on the ground. The bodyguard screamed in pain. Morgan grabbed the razor and pulled White into a headlock, moving backward and setting the razor against his neck.
“Stay back or I kill him.”
Madaki laughed. “I have my guns. You would be doing me a favor.” He addressed his two guards. “Tue-le.”
Madaki’s men raised their guns. Morgan swallowed hard.
The room darkened as two shapes blocked the light from the windows. Then the glass shattered, the two figures broke through, and gunshot resounded in the room. Madaki’s guards fell, dead.
There, standing at the windows, were Bishop and Spartan, still attached to their rappel ropes. Morgan made out the sound of a helicopter’s rotor turning overhead.
Morgan turned to Madaki, but the warlord was already fleeing the room. Morgan released White to follow him, but Bishop put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder.
“Leave him,” Bishop said. “He’s not getting far. Look outside.”
Morgan stepped over the writhing bodyguard to stand at the broken window against the fresh breeze that was blowing inside. Five troop carriers were driving into the property. They parked and men in full Ivorian military uniform poured out, in neat formation. It was Madaki’s men, who’d been pressing against the ruined chapel, who were now fighting on two fronts.
Morgan turned around to see Bishop putting White in handcuffs. “Who are the soldiers?” he asked.
“General Jakande sent them. I guess he saw an opportunity.”
Morgan turned his attention back to the battle. The army soldiers were advancing. They were minutes away from a rout.
“Morgan,” said Bishop. “We need to get up on the roof to leave with the chopper.”
Morgan scanned the battlefield below. While Jakande’s men were swarming the chapel attackers, another group of Madaki’s soldiers was moving back in the opposite direction. Holding them off single-handedly, pinned against one of White’s trucks, was a small woman in a tank top, holding an Uzi in her left hand, bleeding from her right shoulder.
Yolande.
“Morgan, we need to go!” said Bishop
“I’ll meet up with you later!” He grabbed the AR-15 from one of the dead guards and dashed out of the room.
“Morgan! Where are you going?”
“Go!” He ran full tilt downstairs and circled around the back door. He leapt over bodies as he reached White’s green canopied Mercedes-Benz trucks.
The chopper lifted off the roof and flew overhead, moving south. Within seconds it had cleared the property.
Morgan circled the trucks and opened fire on the encroaching soldiers. They stopped their progress, sending a barrage of bullets in response. Morgan kept low and ran to Yolande, taking cover behind the truck cab alongside her. She was nursing a wounded arm.
“What the hell are you doing here? I thought you left in the chopper!”
“Well, I stayed!” The battlefield smelled of blood and burning gunpowder. Morgan peeked around the grille of the truck and fired a volley of bullets from his AR-15. The attackers hesitated, but continued moving forward.
They didn’t have long. Not long enough to wait for Jakande’s men to save them.
“Okay, genius, you came here to save me,” said Yolande. “Now what’s your plan?”
Morgan stood flat against the side of the truck, mind racing, when his eyes locked onto something.
The satchel of dynamite, which Morgan had dropped to check on the weapons crates. It was still there, where he’d left it, lying in the mud. Nobody had thought to pick it up.
Morgan crawled forward and raised it off the ground, feeling its weight. He crouched behind the truck and, holding on to the strap, he swung it overhand. It sailed over the truck and landed among the attackers. They yelled and ran for cover. Morgan rolled onto the muddy ground and fired.
The satchel erupted in flames, hot air blowing against his face.
Morgan scuttled back to sit next to Yolande, leaning against the truck’s tire. The gunfire grew sparser and more distant as Jakande’s men beat back Madaki’s.
Morgan took a deep breath. It was over.
He turned to Yolande. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I did not ask for you to come save me.” Her lips curled into something like a smile. “But thank you for coming anyway.”
Chapter 51
Alex was alone and everything was dark. A figure that came out of the shadows, and somehow was the dark, chasing her. Her leg wasn’t broken or in a cast anymore, but the more she struggled to run, the slower she seemed to go. The figure just came closer and closer until it knocked her on the ground and climbed on top of her, his face inches from hers, a horrible, twisted face—
She woke up, panting. It was late morning already, but she had stayed up so late the night before out of fear and adrenaline that she only now was pushing herself to get up.
Katie’s bed was empty. She had been there the night before, but by the time Alex came back she was already asleep.
Alex was groggy, and the world had taken on the sheen of unreality that followed disturbing events and a night of poor sleep. She looked at the day outside. Gray and snowy. Big surprise.
Still in her pajamas, she knocked on Simon’s door. Both had locked their respective doors when they had gotten back as a precaution. Some thirty seconds later, the knob turned and there was Simon, rubbing his eyes.
“Hey,” she said. “How you holding up?”
He let her in without a word and they just sat in each other’s presence, side by side on his bed. This wasn’t the first time she had feared for her life, but she was pretty sure it was for Simon. It had raised the stakes, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with it. Neither, it seemed, did he.
Her phone buzzed: an e-mail from Dr. Strimling. She opened it, without thinking, if only to break the awkwardness. She couldn’t focus and its contents were a blur, but certain choice phrases jumped out at her, such as recommend academic probation, by the end of the semester, and may be facing expulsion.
Simon must have caught it as well, because he yanked her phone from her hands and held it away from her. He mumbled the words under his breath as he read them.
“Alex, what the hell is this? Probation? Expulsion? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s my goddamn problem, all right?” She grabbed her phone back from him.
“And you didn’t think to talk about it with your friends?” he huffed. “Are you talking to anyone about this?”
She looked at the carpet and crossed her arms. “I’ve got it handled, all right?”
“Oh, that is abundantly clear.” He swore and looked out the window. “I’m worried about you.”
“Forget about this!” she said. “What about the Ekklesia? What about our case?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“We have a purpose, Simon. We have a mission.”
“Our purpose is this!” he yelled, motioning all around him. “College. Classes. You know, the reason we’re actually here?”
“Girls are being drugged—”
“And we’ve done what we could. In fact, we’ve gone way past what is reasonable for someone to do in this situation. But it’s over. There’s nothing more to be done, except maybe alert someone in a position of authority.”
“We can’t let them—”
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He was stern. “I won’t let you. You’re in a spiral, and I don’t know where it ends, but I know it’s not good. And I think you’re using it to run away.”
Painful as it was to admit, he was making some kind of sense. Everything in her life was a shambles. She was close to flunking out of school. She didn’t even know what was going on in her classes. She had not spoken to her father in weeks. And her one true friend in college she was using to chase this strange new obsession of hers. Maybe she was holding on to this so that she wouldn’t have to face the difficult work of getting everything else back on track.
She broke down in tears. Simon embraced her.
“Alex.” His voice was gentle now. “It’s time to pull the plug on this.”
“Okay,” she said weakly.
“I’ll help you with yo
ur classes. We’ll see about getting you a tutor or something in case it turns out you need it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“I just want to be alone with my thoughts for a little while.”
He nodded. “Promise you’ll call if you need me?”
“Yeah.”
“All right,” he said, getting up and opening the door for her. “I’ll be here.”
She shuffled to her bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. A horrible sensation came over her. It wasn’t the dull self-loathing she’d been sharing her mind with for the past several months. This was sharper, more painful. It made her want to cry out. To scream. So she put her pillow over her head and did, over and over again, shrieks of pain and anger muffled in memory foam.
And it began to feel better. This was, she realized, what it was like to let go of an obsession. To jog yourself out of something that seemed so important it eclipsed everything else in your life. She had to tear that away, and it took little parts of her with it. But it was also the beginning of healing.
She was startled out of it by her phone ringing in her pocket. She drew it out and looked at the screen: it was an unknown 617 number. She slid her finger across the screen to answer.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Alex, it’s Hillary Chen.”
“He-hi,” she said. “Sorry, I’m just surprised to be hearing from you.”
“Yeah. Listen, I lied. I do remember something. Quite a bit, actually. And I’d like to talk to you about it. Can you meet me in Boston?”
“I, uh, have a broken leg,” she said. “But I could take the bus—”
“Never mind, I’ll drive up this evening. Where can I meet you?” Hillary asked.
And, just like it was a drug, she was hooked again.
Chapter 52
Bruce Ansley drove his boxy, steel blue old model Toyota Camry the familiar way home in the noontime sun. He and Annemarie rode together in silence, digesting what they had just been told.
Annemarie spoke first. “So what do we do about Pam?”
Arch Enemy Page 19
