Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) Page 31

  “Get on the bike!” Ike shouted to Delani.

  Delani nodded and guided Gilles to the propped motorbike. The wounded man limped over, miraculously able to walk under his own power.

  As Delani swung his legs over, the lead motorcyclist opened fire with his assault rifle. Ike paused from loading his next and final grenade when he saw the flashes and ducked his head instinctively.

  Delani grunted as something struck him heavily under the armpit. Blood sprayed out from the wound and the South African fell forward onto the bike. He bit past the pain and crawled onto the seat, letting Gilles on behind him.

  “Get moving,” Ike insisted. “Now.”

  He finally fitted his last grenade and raised the launcher one more time, determined to make this shot count. As Delani and Gilles peeled out, Ike squeezed the trigger.

  The air between the two leading bikes burst into flames. The concussive force blasted one of them apart and threw the second rider clean off his bike to crash headfirst onto the ground.

  The third motorbike sped through the explosion’s wake, straight toward Ike.

  Suddenly alone and out of ammo, Ike dropped the launcher to the ground and darted for the tree line. As the roaring bike bore down on him, he dove through the thick undergrowth and collapsed to the mud on the other side.

  Rather than pursuing, the third rider continued right past him, darting off down the trail.

  Brandon drove as fast as he dared along the winding trail. The truck rattled and bounced with every bump. Behind him, the trailer squealed and groaned on its shocks.

  He noticed Raoul glancing in the rearview mirror, a concerned expression on his face. The Frenchman twisted in his seat to look out the back. In his own rearview mirror, Brandon glanced out at the black night. Only one working brake light lit the view in soft red. But, before he pulled his eyes away to look at where he was going, he spotted movement, a dark silhouette on the trailer by his Cessna.

  “We have company,” he told Raoul.

  Raoul said something in French in reply, and then, “Brandon.”

  When he looked back over at Raoul, the Frenchman was watching him. He unclasped the buckle to his seat belt and moved a hand to the door handle. “Soigneux.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Raoul held a finger to his lips and opened the door. One foot at a time, he climbed out onto the passenger seat step, holding tight to the doorframe. The wind blew his hair back and as the truck hit a bump he clutched himself tight to the metal. Through it all, his expression was serene, as though he was back in his kitchen cooking hash and potatoes.

  Brandon didn’t know what to make of it. As he glanced forward again, his eyes caught a light in his rearview mirror. He focused on driving, at first pushing down on the gas to outrun the light. He soon realized that trying to outrun it was useless and, a moment later, a small motorbike with two riders sped right up alongside him.

  He breathed a small sigh of relief when he recognized Delani.

  But then another, similar light appeared behind him.

  Maybe that’s Ike?

  The sound of gunshots jolted his nerves. His eyes went up at a series of flashes in his mirror as the silhouette opened fire from the trailer. Round spider webs appeared in the glass at the back of the cabin, right behind his head.

  Then the gunshots ceased and a series of cracks issued from his right. Raoul clung to the side of the truck, slowly attempting to climb around the cabin, a pistol extended and firing at the silhouette.

  He saw the intruder scramble for cover behind the Cessna, even as Raoul climbed toward the trailer.

  The second motorbike pulled up alongside the trailer. Flashes erupted from where the driver should be, spraying bullets in Delani’s direction. Delani swerved to dodge them, but the mercenaries were in no position to return fire.

  Brandon swerved to the left. But the truck was too cumbersome and the trailer barely fishtailed.

  Raoul pounded on the window, clinging onto the side of the cab for dear life.

  “Oh right,” Brandon yelled. “Sorry!”

  The second motorbike swerved back and forth on the trail, then backed off and cut behind the trailer, out of Brandon’s view.

  Meanwhile, Raoul made his way around to the trailer and hopped into the bed, gun drawn and ready. The Frenchman’s face glowed red in the truck’s brake light as he scanned for the intruder.

  Jean waved to the soldier on the motorbike. Zadu’s lieutenant crouched behind the disassembled wing of the Cessna, using it as cover. He held his Glock ready for a shot at the driver or the gunman who had just climbed from the passenger seat. In the darkness and with the bulk of the Cessna’s fuselage in front of him, he could see neither.

  He waved again to the soldier on the motorbike. He didn’t want to proceed alone and the rider couldn’t shoot his gun effectively while maneuvering the cycle. The soldier gave him one last doubtful look then swerved toward the trailer and reached out with his left arm.

  His fist closed around the chain that held the plane in place moments before the bike flipped out from under him. The soldier held on as he pulled himself onto the trailer.

  Jean crawled out from behind his hiding spot. He held the Glock out ready, finger pressed, and looked for any sign of movement. Slowly he crept along the side of the plane, stepping carefully over the thick floats. He hoped that his man would move along the other side to help him surround the gunman as he was trained.

  He reached the Cessna’s nose, marred by a trail of bullet holes, and stretched to see over the top. Jean couldn’t see the gunman from this angle, but he had a clear shot at an even better target. Hoping that his soldier kept the gunman’s attention, Jean aimed his Glock through the rear window of the cabin.

  His eyes settled on a head of curly brown hair. The driver’s attention was forced forward to navigate the twisting trail. And while the rear window might stop the first few rounds, it couldn’t stop all the bullets in Jean’s clip.

  Without hesitation, Jean squeezed the trigger.

  The Glock rattled in his hands, banging in his ears like a jackhammer. Something battered his wrist and, in the numb moment, he didn’t even register that something had knocked his hand up into the air and spent all his bullets on the starry sky.

  The gunman appeared in front of him then, stepping within arm’s length. Jean smelled the sour scent of palm wine as a solid elbow struck him in the gut. The same elbow battered his sternum, his throat, and his chin in one continuous movement. Dazed, Jean dropped the Glock and fell back against the fuselage.

  A fist swung for his face, but this time he had the sense of mind to block it. He did so with two upraised arms and at the same time earned himself a knee in the groin.

  In all his life, Jean had never seen somebody move quite so fast.

  And then the man was crouched at his legs. One arm wrapped around the back of his thigh and the other grabbed onto his opposite calf. In one rush of movement, Jean was lifted off of the trailer planks and thrown through the air.

  Jean looked back at the man who had thrown him, seeing the callous expression in his eyes. The wine-soaked man stood at the edge of the trailer.

  Jean landed hard in the mud. Terrible pain shot through his body with each bounce along the ground. He heard the crack of a limb before he felt the blow.

  As he looked up at the departing trailer, he saw his man move around the plane to attack the waiting gunman. The gunman spun and fired three times in rapid succession. It was more than enough to do the job.

  Soldiers poured into the two remaining vehicles.

  Ike watched them from the tree line, a sea of shadows fumbling over one another. They quickly crowded both Jeeps in their haste to catch the unknown attackers. He heard the rumble of the first engine and tensed his muscles in anticip
ation.

  As the first Jeep lurched forward, its front tire rolled over a small cylinder propped against a rock. Under the weight of the vehicle, the grenade compressed. An explosion shattered the night, followed by the screams of men. Ike watched as the Jeep rolled over backward and settled to the ground covered in flames.

  Although the trap had worked as planned, Ike regretted he had neglected to booby trap the second vehicle, the one with the machine gun and the one he had originally intended to steal. Right after the first vehicle went up in flames, the second lit up, headlights flashing, and started across the grassy clearing.

  Askari Nahuru soldiers reached the trail on foot before the Jeep caught up. They gathered around a single silhouette. The driver of the Jeep pulled the vehicle to a stop, when the silhouette raised an outstretched hand.

  The men whispered in KiSwahili, and Ike strained to hear the individual words. Some of them spoke of ghosts in the jungle. Others theorized that their own men had been driven mad and stolen the vehicles. Someone announced that they had to chase down the truck or someone named Zadu would be furious.

  The shadows mingled about one another in a state of confusion, giving Ike an idea. The Australian mercenary crept slowly from the foliage until he stood on the trail. Mustering his nerve, he walked into the gathering like he was one of them. In the night, darkness cloaked their faces and as long as nobody studied him closely, they would never notice a white foreigner among them.

  The soldiers talked quietly as the voice ordered the Jeep to get moving. Ike kept his arms at his sides and walked straight past the tall man, wild eyes flashing in the moonlight. The man didn’t even turn to acknowledge him as he crawled into the bed of the Jeep next to the machine gun. A lone soldier knelt beside the weapon.

  A moment later, the driver stepped on the gas and the Jeep moved again. Only then did the soldier see Ike. Ike’s blade pierced the man’s neck, right above the collarbone. His gurgling cry didn’t rise above the sound of the engine.

  As the soldier slumped to the bed of the Jeep, Ike spotted a round green ball dangling from the man’s belt. He turned to the giant machine gun. Taking the weapon in both hands, he swung the barrel toward the gathering of foot soldiers at the base of the trail.

  He could barely make out individual shapes, but the majority of them were clumped together in a tight huddle. He squeezed the trigger and the cannon lit up. The thunderous noise deafened him and the flash of the muzzle destroyed his night vision, but he could still follow the tracer rounds to where he knew the enemy soldiers stood.

  He ducked into the bed, curling against the backseat, and retrieved the hand grenade. The four men in the front turned to see why their fellow had fired.

  Ike popped the pin free.

  He held his breath and tossed the grenade into the seats in front of him. He might die, but the Askari Nahuru would not follow the others.

  Ike closed his eyes.

  One final explosion rumbled across the clearing.

  30

  Alfred twisted his torn shirt into a tight cord and threaded one end into the tank. Torn fuel lines dangled against the rusted outer casing. The old gasoline generator was a disaster waiting to happen, likely leaking carbon monoxide fumes. He had promised Sam a distraction. The easiest way to do that was with an explosion.

  Alfred spent half his lighter fluid soaking the end of his makeshift fuse. Cotton didn’t burn as readily as other materials so he had to make sure to get the fire hot enough to burn all the way down. The moment he brought his lighter flame to it, the shirt lit up.

  He backed off, watching the orange flames lick their way toward the gasoline tank. Dread washed through him. The coming explosion would be unpredictable and with his movement limited to the one corner of the generator house, there was little he could do to protect himself.

  Fair enough, he thought. Before Sam’s visit and her ensuing embrace, Alfred had little hope for his own life, certain that Guy intended to let him dehydrate. Their conversation had not gone well, and Alfred thought the only thing that had kept him alive this long was Guy’s abhorrence to the idea of executing someone. Instead he’d let the chemist rot, out of sight and out of mind.

  But when Sam came in, she brimmed with confidence and brought renewed hope. To Alfred, she seemed to be calling the shots, albeit through careful persuasion.

  So if he died now, at least it was better than his previous fate, he decided.

  The chemist retreated back to the corner and pulled the chair in front of him as a meager defense.

  Guy’s hands fumbled under her tank top. His fingers slithered about her breasts and stomach, violating. He had already slid out of his shirt and pants. Sam wanted to vomit. Yet a part of her also wanted to just give in. Get it over with. As she felt his fingers move to her shorts, she didn’t make a move to stop him. She only hoped that Brandon could forgive her.

  The windows rattled and the floorboards shook with the force of the explosion. Guy bolted up at the sound, eyes narrowed in confusion. He glanced at Sam and saw that she shared his bewilderment.

  As she realized what was happening, Sam used her momentary surprise to her advantage. “What was that?” she asked.

  He stood up and picked his pistol up off the table, sliding it into his waistband. He moved toward the door. There he paused and turned to look at her.

  She realized he didn’t have time to bind her wrists.

  “Stay right here,” Guy warned her. “If you try to escape . . .”

  “I know,” she replied with a nod.

  With that he turned and left. The moment he disappeared, she lifted the covers and slid off the bed. She headed straight for Guy’s notebooks. Although now would be the perfect time to escape, she wanted to stop his research. She opened the first notebook at the top of the stack and tore out the first page. She crossed to the table and the oil lamp he had been using. She twisted the lamp open so the tiny flame was exposed and touched the half-crumpled paper to it. With the flaming sheet in hand, she returned to the stack of notebooks.

  Kitu saw the billowing smoke from his spot on Guy’s porch. He held his spear ready and craned his neck toward the only stone building. A hole gaped open in the roof, shattered wood tumbling to the earth.

  “What happened?” Guy demanded when he emerged from his house, gun in hand, wearing only his shirt.

  Kitu shrugged helplessly. “I do not know.”

  “Did you see anyone go over there?” Guy asked, his anger brimming.

  “No. I saw no one,” he insisted. Dawn was still an hour off and the night was still dark. He could easily have missed something.

  Guy muttered under his breath, shaking his head at the rising smoke, visible against the night sky.

  They strode the short distance between the two buildings hastily. Kitu saw the shadows of the other Mbuti emerging from their huts across the clearing. Curious, they arose from their sleep to see what had caused the earth-shattering noise.

  When they reached the door, Guy’s impatience worked against him as he fumbled with the lock. Finally, he pushed inside and stopped just within the door. Kitu stayed with him.

  The casing on the generator was cracked asunder and flames still smoldered from within. The walls bent outward around the shell, stones knocked askew and blackened. Pieces of burning wood and paper littered the floor.

  In the corner, amidst the shards of his shattered chair, the one-armed man lay groaning. When he saw Guy, he tried getting up, pushing aside charred splinters, but faltered, his one good arm giving out underneath him.

  Guy’s face turned red at the sight, and he hollered curses at his captive in a language Kitu couldn’t follow. The one-armed man only murmured quietly to himself in response.

  “Help me take him outside,” Guy ordered Kitu as he crossed the room and knelt in the broken rubble. He
yanked on the chain that kept the man bound and, with a key from his pocket, quickly unlocked it. “Pick him up.”

  Kitu nodded and grabbed the captive under the armpit, yanking him to his feet. Dazed, the man wavered, even with the Mbuti’s support. Together, they followed Guy out of the building toward the pit. Once they reached Chui’s old den, Guy gestured inside.

  “Throw him in there.”

  Kitu hesitated for a moment, then, rather than throwing, he gently lowered the one-armed man down the steep sloping muddy wall.

  A click drew his attention back to Guy, who held his pistol out and pointed into the pit at his captive’s head. Kitu winced in anticipation, turning to look away.

  The next seconds seemed to take forever. At first, Kitu heard nothing and saw nothing. The land around him was still, the forest quiet except for distant calls and insects. And then, when he looked over at Guy again, the man was wearing a leopard.

  It happened so suddenly that Kitu didn’t have time to register what had happened. But there was Chui on Guy’s shoulders, his teeth sinking into the flesh of a shoulder. Guy collapsed under the sudden weight falling to the ground. A horrible scream escaped his lips as the animal mauled him from behind.

  Kitu brought his spear up, but the shaft wobbled in his shaking grasp. Frozen, the Mbuti had not the wit to even run away. Luckily Chui seemed focused on Guy and ignored Kitu.

  For a moment, Kitu thought he should leap to his aid and run the leopard through. But, the memory of Guy’s earlier words made him hesitate: Let Chui be the judge . . .

  The crack of a gunshot broke Kitu’s paralysis, and his eyes fell to the red hole that appeared in the cat’s neck. A bloody, groaning man struggled out from under the dying corpse. Kitu stooped and offered him his hand.