Rare Earth (21 page)

M
arc slept late and woke slowly. The clock read half past five in the afternoon. He checked the sat phone, which registered both charge and signal. He assumed the fact that no one had called meant things were moving smoothly. Or not at all.

He ordered a meal and began a stretching routine, working out the travel kinks, readying himself for all the unknowns that the hours ahead might contain.

He was just coming out of the shower when Deb Orlando phoned from the airport, confirming that Boyd Crowder and Karl Rigby were inbound, and she was there to turn their entry invisible. Marc began putting together a written checklist, something they could all use to coordinate actions and timing. Only when room service knocked did Marc realize he was still in a towel. Marc called out for the guy to hang on and went to the closet for his clothes.

As he slipped into trousers, he heard the thump. It sounded like someone hit a note on a bass drum in the hallway beyond his closet wall.

Marc was moving before the sound died. A body had hit the wall and then the floor. Marc had to assume the room-service waiter had become the unwilling lure for an attack.

His actions were driven by years of what instructors had called live-fire simulations. In agency speak this signified the very real risk that field agents would face peril. The only way to determine whether they were genuinely meant for fieldwork was to present them with such risks under controlled circumstances. But this did not mean the agent was out of harm's way. In live-fire simulations the threat of injury was real and constant. The only way to gauge an agent's response to extreme conditions was to put them in extreme conditions.

Marc registered the adrenaline rush just as he did his own tight panting breaths. In the span of two accelerated heartbeats his vision and his mental acuity had taken on pinpoint clarity. He swept the room for his best chance of survival yet had space left over to recall his first training officer, a former field agent who started all live-fire exercises with the same words.
“Fear is just another tool to utilize,”
the agent had repeated. Courage is all about turning fear into success under impossible conditions.

The room's windows were sealed. The hotel's exterior wall was blank and free of balconies. If he broke the glass and tried to scale the wall, they would pick him off. As Marc searched the room's confines, there was another knock on the door, louder this time.

He called out, “Just a minute, I'm coming! I can't find my . . .”

The room did not contain a decent hideaway. The bed was nothing more than a mattress placed on a solid carpeted slab. Behind the sofa was too obvious. Ditto for the closet. The plastic shower curtain was transparent.

Which left him only one option.

Marc hit the sat phone's speed dial for Deb Orlando. He placed the instrument on the glass shelf above the corridor sink, beside his key and money. Beside the phone he placed his genuine passport. Hidden in plain sight.

He called, “Give me two seconds!”

The narrow corridor leading to the bathroom held the closet and a miniature wet bar. Beneath the sink was a cabinet probably designed to hold a small refrigerator. At the moment there was just a coffee tray and a cramped empty space.

“Coming!”

As Marc set the coffee tray on the bathroom counter, he heard a tinny hello coming from the sat phone. He squatted on the carpet and through his fingertips felt the floor vibrate to the thump of many heavy boots. He had very little time.

He aimed his voice at the phone and shouted, “Be right there!”

The alcove was too small for a grown man. Which meant it would not be the first place they looked. Marc folded himself inside. He only managed to draw the door shut by exhaling and holding it in place with his fingertips. Each tight breath pushed the cabinet door open a fraction. If his sweating fingers slipped, all was lost. He would not be able to hold this position for long.

At that point the door to his hotel room exploded inward.

They hit the door high and low. Professional assault tactics. Shoulder above the lock, boot below, weapons hot.

“Freeze! You move, you die!”

They piled in. How many, Marc did not know. Four was his best guess. A fifth man left in the hall to secure their escape route. With each additional attacker, his advantage grew. They would be constricted by the proximity of their own men. Marc, on the other hand, would be held by no such restraint.

“He's not here!”

“Check the bed!”

“Negative!”

“Call it out!”

“Windows sealed!”

“Closet, check!”

“Bathroom, check!”

“Inspect them again!”

“Man, there is no place left to
look
.”

“His keys and passport and phone are here. He's got . . .”

“What is it?”

“I hear something.”

“There's a sat phone on the shelf by the—”

Footsteps shifted toward him. Marc took that as his signal. He struck.

He had wedged himself into the space at a twenty-degree tilt. This meant he could launch himself like a coiled spring both up and out.

The sudden assault from an impossible place momentarily froze them. They stared openmouthed long enough for Marc to strike the closest man, who thankfully turned out to be Dirk, their leader. Marc hit him first in the Adam's apple and then in the temple. The giant gave off a soft “ack” and fell to his knees. The floor thumped dully as he landed. Marc ripped the gun from the man's grip and slammed it into his temple. Dirk went down hard.

The men moved, but even now they were hesitant. They all carried silenced machine pistols. There were four of them in the room, three standing and one on the floor. The fact that Marc had laid out their new boss caused them to hesitate further.

Marc used leverage from the temple strike to catapult himself off the wall and directly at the man between the bathroom corridor and the demolished door. The two men on the bed's opposite side shouted and waved their pistols, but did not fire. The third attacker was shocked at both Marc's sudden leap and his speed. But this guy was also a pro. He lifted his weapon and tried to club Marc's face. But Marc had expected this, and his first strike had in fact been a feint. He shifted to his left and waited while the gun swept past. Then he used Dirk's weapon to hit the man twice on the ear. The second strike splintered the stock.

The attacker's own gun came back in another sweep, but more clumsily this time. Marc dropped his useless weapon and hit the man in that nerve axis where his jaw met his neck. The man grunted at the bright flash of pain. Marc struck him again. His body jerked spasmodically in an adrenaline battle against losing consciousness, and he accidentally pulled the trigger on his firearm. A line of bullets seared down the ceiling and the wall by the doorway. The man guarding their exit shouted a curse and flung himself away from the spray of death.

Marc gripped the machine pistol and hammered the man square in the forehead. The attacker started to fall, but Marc caught him and spun him around. Marc supported the attacker's enfeebled legs and pulled the man back a step, so the bathroom corridor offered more protection.

Marc aimed the machine pistol around his human shield and shouted, “Lose your weapons!”

The attackers by the window sneered, “You're threatening me with an empty gun.”

Marc fired one round through the glass by his head. “Next round goes through your knee. Drop and spread. Now!”

The two guys still standing in the room were going for it. Marc no doubt sensed it before they did. If there had been just one, Marc could probably have talked him down. But the pair exchanged a look, ramping themselves up for the strike. Marc knew he was going down.

But before they could raise their weapons, the man in the hallway shouted,
“Cops! Cops!”

The drumbeat of many feet had never sounded so good.

A deep African voice roared,
“Down, down, everybody facedown on the floor. Do it or die!”

“We're Lodestone operatives!” But the attacker by the window had the good sense to lie prone before he shouted.

“And I am chief of hotel security, and I am telling you to lie down on the floor!”

Marc dropped his human shield and went prone inside the bathroom corridor, his bare feet against the tiles. A softly groaning Dirk and the second attacker formed a barrier between him and any random shot the attackers might try to get off.

A massive shadow fell over Marc and a barrel-deep voice demanded, “What are all these guns doing in
my hotel
?”

One of the attackers by the window said, “Sir, we have been ordered to apprehend a dangerous suspect.”

“This suspect, was he the hotel staff I see unconscious in the hallway outside this room?”

The attacker by the window went silent.

“Yes, that is
exactly
what I am thinking.”

“We operate under UN sanction!”

“And you do not think to inform hotel security first?” The shadow shifted. “Take these weapons and bind them up.”

“I protest—”

“You be silent . . . What have you done to this wall here? And what has happened to
my window
?”

“The man we are here to arrest—”

“Who is in charge?”

“He is still out.”

“Five sent to silence one man. But your leader and another are here moaning at my feet. This is very interesting.”

“I'm telling you, this guy is a serious threat.”

“Which one of you is Royce? Marc Royce.”

“Here.”

“Stand up, man.”

The attacker by the window protested, “Marc Royce is a wanted felon!”

“I am not telling you to be silent again, you hear what I am saying?” The man was so large as to compress the room's air. He wore a neatly pressed uniform and a ferocious scowl. “You have ID, Mr. Royce?”

“On the shelf by the sat phone.”

“You are armed?”

“No, I took the weapon off the man there.”

“And you, the five brave men who come at an unarmed hotel guest. You have IDs?”

“At Lodestone.”

“So you break into this man's room. And you do not alert hotel security. You claim you are a UN force. But I have been contacted by an official from the United States embassy. And she tells me that a U.S. federal agent is under threat from mercenaries.” His voice rose once more to full roar.
“In my hotel!”

“No, wait, that's not—”

“Take these men to the security cellar. No, leave Mr. Royce here with me.”

“You need to call our director!”

“Oh, we will be calling all
sorts
of people. In due time.”

Marc watched as the five were lifted up and dragged away. Their protests rang down the hall beyond his ruined door, sweet as a choir. The security chief must have seen his pleasure, for he smiled and said, “This lady from the embassy, she is most anxious for you to pick up your phone.”

C
harles knew something was wrong even before he could see the camp. They rounded the final bend and the forest came into view. At first the vista looked just the same as always. The sun-bleached forest rose like a futile gesture, hearkening back to a time before the drought, before their world had exploded and been blanketed by ash.

Shadow figures flitted beneath the branches. Most were women, rags draped like shawls over their heads. They carried bundles of twigs on their backs, and more in their arms. They looked up as the trucks rumbled forward. One of the crones dropped her load of wood and waved what might have been a warning.

Then Charles spotted the others. “Hold up.”

The driver did not like it. “These women, they will try and take our goods.”

“I do not think so. And if they do, I will stop them.”

“You are one man.”

“I am their friend.”

“But the camp, it is just ahead.”

“It may not be safe.” Charles reached over and gripped the hand holding the wheel. “I am known here. This is my home, as much as it is anyone's. And I am telling you to stop. For all our sakes.”

The Red Cross driver grumbled, but he slowed and halted. One of the young men riding atop the load asked a question. Charles opened his door and called back, “Stay where you are!”

The women approached slowly. Charles understood the driver's concern. He and his men had seen other women gather like hyenas circling a wounded predator. Charles motioned for Levi and the others to remain where they were, and stepped onto the running board. He said to the women, “You know me.”

The women hesitated, then one of the older ones said, “Philip, he says we are to warn you if you come.”

Charles was about to question her when another voice barked from the trees. A man loped forward, joined by a young woman, and they by four more. All of them drawn from the teams put together by Marc Royce.

The man closest to Charles called, “The
shujaa
, he is with you?”

The word
shujaa
meant warrior, and so much more. It took Charles a long moment to realize the young man spoke of Marc. “He is not.”

All four young people slumped in unified defeat. “Then all is lost.”

“He will be here soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Tell me what is wrong.”

“The men, they are here.”

“The yellow ones?”

“Them and the others too. With the blue armbands and the guns. And their leaders. All here.”

Charles turned and spoke through the open window. “You heard?”

The driver nodded. “Bandits?”

“The worst sort,” Charles confirmed. “Thieves with uniforms and the law on their side.”

“We will leave from here and go to the next camp,” the driver said. “Half our goods are meant for them.”

“Half will stay here,” Charles insisted.

“But you just said—”

“These young people are here to help you off-load. They will see the goods are properly distributed.”

“But the camp officials, they must sign my manifest or I lose my job.”

“I am a camp official,” Charles replied. “You know this, for you were ordered to bring me here. I will sign.”

The driver nervously drummed the wheel. “I am thinking we should go now.”

“Then think on this,” Charles said. “The only reason you remain safe is because of my word. Try to leave and I will order them to stop you, and take everything.”

The driver went sullen. “I am liking this less and less.”

“And you will like this least of all. One of your trucks is to remain with me.” Charles pointed toward the forest. “Pull your trucks off the trail and into the trees there. And hurry.”

Levi slipped down from the truck and walked over, concern creasing his features. But Charles motioned for him to wait.

As two of the five trucks were off-loaded and their wares shifted deeper into the forest, the lead young man shared what he knew with Charles. Charles translated for Levi, though it pained him to do so. “They arrived yesterday evening.”

“They?”

“A man with the UN logo on his chest. And guards. Many guards. All armed.”

“By chopper?”

“This time by truck.”

“The trucks, they were white with the blue lettering?”

“No, man. Khaki.”

Which was impossible. The UN always traveled in white convoys. Even the soldiers drove trucks painted so that they shone in the sunlight and were known as noncombatants. Charles frowned. “You are certain of this?”

The young man nodded. “I saw them myself. They are imposters, yes?”

It was exactly what Charles had been thinking. And Marc had suggested. “Why do you ask this?”

“The lead man, he does not speak as the UN speaks, with kindness and concern. He stomps and he shouts and he points with his pistol.”

“So they came in trucks.”

“Not trucks like those that carry goods. Smaller ones, meant for people. With benches and closed up in back. They were stained with ash.”

Charles assumed this was important, but could not think why. “What happened then?”

“The lead man, he speaks with the director. The director shouts back at him. The lead man, he strikes the director with his pistol.” The young man swiped the air between them, like delivering a slap. “The director, he goes down hard, and when he tries to rise, the lead man, he points the pistol at him and smiles. It is not a good smile. It is the way a man looks when he enjoys bad work, you understand?”

“I have seen this look,” Charles replied. “Many times.”

“The director comes up slow; he is trembling. His face is wet and red. He takes the lead man to Philip and the elders. The lead man tells them what is happening, that the camp is to be moved.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. We are to take only what we can carry.”

“I do not understand. We are to walk?”

“The elders ask the same. The lead man says there will be trucks for the young and the weak. Then he signals to his men, who go into the medical tent. They call back through the screen wall and say the woman, she is there. That is what they call her, ‘the woman.'”

“Kitra,” Charles said, dreading what was to come next.

“They bring her out, one man holding each arm. She tells the lead man the doctor is working at another camp. The lead man asks her name.”

“No,” Levi moaned.

When the young man glanced nervously at Levi, Charles urged, “Go on.”

“The lead man says, ‘She is the one. Bring her.' They put her in the third truck and drive away.” When Levi moaned a second time, the young man asked, “This is the father?”

“He is.”

“So now they have taken two of his clan.” The young man's face was creased with experiences of his own. “The shujaa must hear of this.”

“I will call him now,” Charles said, though the prospect turned him leaden.

The young man made as to pat Levi's shoulder. “Tell this one, the shujaa of Philip's dream will know what must be done.”

Charles translated the young man's words. He started to explain, but Levi did not seem to have heard what Charles had said beyond the moment he heard his daughter had been taken. Charles's head spun with all he had heard, and more besides. The word
shujaa
signified a warrior, one who rises within the tribe to save it in times of crisis. As he coded in Marc's number, Charles tried to recall if he had ever heard the word being applied to an outsider, most especially a white man. He listened to the phone ring, and knew this word meant Marc Royce was an outsider no longer.