Samurai Game (50 page)

Ryland considered the risks before he agreed. The distance to Matadi without picking up transportation would take too many days to walk and they were going to get lucky only if they were close to a road.

Let’s stay close.

They didn’t have long to wait until they heard the faint sound of an engine chugging toward them. Quickly they set up an ambush. As the rusty old pickup came into sight, Gator stumbled out onto the road, babbling, arguing with himself in his Cajun accent, seemingly oblivious to the truck. The truck lurched to a halt, four rebels spilling out, shouting at Gator and gesturing with guns. When he continued to babble, they looked at one another and one went up to him to deliver a blow into his midsection. The others spit on him. One punched and another kicked him as he went down. Engrossed in beating up the clearly insane idiot, none of them noticed the GhostWalkers slipping up behind them.

Gator’s eyes cleared. From the ground he gave them a wicked grin and wiggled his fingers. “Bye-bye, boys,” he said. “Been fun knowin’ ya.”

Four knives slit throats, and Sam reached down to help Gator as the bodies were removed from the road. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Next time you can be the insane guy.”

Sam grinned at him. “Do I look crazy to you? You’re so good at it.”

“Get in the truck,” Ryland called.

There were risks out in the open on the road, but it was far faster than “breaking brush”—walking in the jungle. As Kyle floored it, pushing the speed to cover miles, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Every mile passing was a mile closer to going home to Azami. For the first time in his life he actually had a reason to go home.

They stayed as alert as possible with the pits in the road jarring them every few minutes. The rain fell in the same endless gray sheets, obscuring vision. At times the bald tires slid in the mud, sending them slamming into each other. They were packed like sardines in the back, but they weren’t walking.

Three hours later, as they hit the top of a hill, the radiator began to steam and the engine abruptly seized.

“Okay, boys,” Ryland said. “Time to put the LPCs back to use.”

The men groaned and lifted their leather personal carriers out of the truck. Ryland laughed at them. “Too much good living. You’re all turning into pansies. The truck saved us over a hundred miles of walking and a few days on top of that, so stop your bellyaching. We’ve got twenty-three miles until we get to Matadi. Let’s get this sorry ass truck pushed over the edge so it looks like the abandoned wreck that it is. We need to get out of sight and make certain nobody saw us arrive.”

After ascertaining they hadn’t been spotted, they traveled twenty klicks from the truck, set up security, and settled in to wait for nightfall.

* * *

D
uncan Forbes sank into his favorite seat at his favorite pub. “Whiskey.” He needed it. And he had a damn good reason to celebrate. Everything had gone to hell in the Congo, but he’d gotten out alive and he’d had his revenge on the fuckers. Who did they think they were, anyway? They’d treated him like dog shit. “Elite, my ass,” he said aloud. Yeah, they were so damned elite that they were going to die in that jungle, hopefully tortured by those equally idiotic rebels.

“Make that two,” General Fielding said and slid his butt into the seat across from Forbes. He smiled at the woman seated at the bar. A pretty little thing. Delicate. Asian. The little cap of jet black hair was intriguing around her fragile face. She had the longest lashes he’d ever seen. Her lips were . . .

“You’re staring,” Forbes said with a tight laugh. “She’s probably on the clock.”

“I can find out after we have our drink. It was a long flight to Washington.” He glanced again at the woman, catching her eye. This time she smiled. “I wish I was in uniform, but that always attracts undo attention. Women, however, fall all over me when I’m wearing it.” He turned his head and suddenly he was all business, looking like the commander he was. “What the hell went wrong out there? I don’t like leaving my soldiers behind.”

“Sacrifices have to be made, General. If we’re going to have a strong military, we need the right people leading,” Forbes said. “These men not only blew a multimillion-dollar project, but more important, they blew months of negotiations. If the president gets those mines back, we won’t have access to what we need for the weapon. He’s not going to be so easy to deal with as a bunch of hotheaded rebels with no real agenda.”

Fielding sighed. “Still. They were soldiers. Good soldiers.”

Forbes shot him a look. “What do you know about them?”

“Not much.” The general shrugged, his gaze straying back toward the woman at the bar. She was leaning over the bar, talking to the bartender, flirting a little as the man put the whiskeys on the bar for the waitress. She had picked up her clutch and seemed to be getting ready to leave. He didn’t want her to leave. She was the only prospect he could see for salvaging the night.

The waitress scooped up the drinks and brought them over to the table. Forbes reached for his money, but she shook her head and indicated over her shoulder. “She bought it for both of you.”

Forbes took his drink with a sigh of relief and downed half of it, before smiling an acknowledgment. “I don’t think that uniform is going to matter one way or the other, General. That little tart is looking for some fun with you.”

The general picked his drink up and waited until the little Asian girl had slipped off the barstool and was fully facing him. He raised his glass in a toast to her and took a large swallow. She smiled back at him and sauntered over, taking her time but holding his attention with her large, exotic eyes.

She stopped at the table as Forbes downed his drink and signaled for two more. The general managed another healthy swallow, looking her up and down over the rim of his glass.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said softly, very softly, her voice just the merest thread of sound.

“Thank you for the drinks,” Fielding said. He went to put his hand on her hip, but she glided a few steps and his hand fell through empty air.

She smiled. “You don’t have me to thank. These drinks are courtesy of the GhostWalkers you thought you left behind in the jungle. Enjoy them, gentlemen, they’ll be your last.” She spoke so soft, so sweetly, it took a moment for her words to register.

Forbes opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. Alarm spread across his face. He clutched his chest.

The general scowled at her. “What the hell are you saying?”

She was already gone, walking out of the bar with unhurried steps, the bar door swinging closed behind her.

The waitress brought the second round of drinks to the table. Forbes half stood, still clutching at his heart. He suddenly fell, going to his knees, his chair tipping back. “Oh, my God,” the waitress said. “Bill, I think he’s having a heart attack. Call an ambulance.”

As the words left her mouth, Fielding tried to stand and went down, smashing his head on the table, his hands gripping the edges so hard the table overturned. Several people ran to help. No one noticed the man removing the two glasses from the floor and pocketing them, leaving the newly spilled whiskey glasses beside the overturned table. He left the bar as the paramedics arrived.

Eiji walked out of the bar and down the sidewalk, using the same unhurried pace his sister had. He turned into the alley where she waited, once more in jeans, with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. As he walked down the alley toward her, he reversed his light-colored coat to the darker blue side, slicked his hair back, and waited while Azami deftly changed the laces in his shoes to a bright pink. They both donned backpacks they had stashed. He dropped his arm around her shoulders, and they emerged onto the next street on the other side of the block, Eiji hailing a cab.

* * *

D
aylight gave way to darkness, although there seemed to be little difference with the constant rain in the jungle. Sometimes the rain let up for a short while and then it would start again in earnest. They continued their journey toward the port where the GhostWalkers hoped to “acquire” a boat.

The rising sun found them four miles from town where they settled in for the day. It was far too risky in the more populated area to travel. With the sun, the rain faded into a mist and then gradually disappeared altogether.

“We’ll rest here,” Ryland decided. “Try to scavenge up some food, find a water source, and clean up a bit.”

They all carried baby wipes and basic hygiene necessities and it felt good to take some of the grime of battle and travel off. Water came from a creek that ran into the nearby Congo River. Kyle, Jonas, and Gator went looking for food for everyone. Kyle managed to come up with a couple of dozen bananas and Jonas collected wild yams. Gator built a fish weir in the creek and captured a few tilapia.

Sam and Nico dug an oblong hole and built a fire in it. Using green limbs, they built a rack over the fire and cooked the fish and yams. They all sat back, finally satisfied, feeling as if they’d attended a virtual feast. The food was much needed, as it had been some time since they’d consumed any of their rations.

“We’re going to revise our plan a little and go with a new strategy for the night,” Ryland said. It was evident that while the others collected and cooked food, Ryland and Kadan had been working on a new plan. “We’ll split into two teams. The teams will do independent recons of two different routes to port. We’d like to find a small boat to take us down the Congo River to the Atlantic. When we’ve completed our recons, we’ll meet back up at a designated ORP and make a decision how to proceed. Any questions?” Again there was no pause. “Good. Let’s get it done, gentlemen.”

Sam, Nico, Kadan, and Jonas headed out, traveling fast, as soon as they’d settled on an objective rally point. Sam slipped into the brush, close to the port. The place was heavily guarded, presumably to keep the rebels out. Armed men in uniforms paced restlessly. Several stood together, talking quietly, smoke and laughter drifting back toward him. He worked his way all along the river, trying to find some means of transportation, but the security had the place locked down tight. Cursing under his breath, he made his way back to his three team members. All of them shook their heads silently.

Kadan gave the signal to retreat back to the designated objective rally point. They could only hope that Ryland’s team had fared better. They crouched down, waiting for Ryland’s team when the radio gave a soft sigh.

“Burning Man . . . Burning Man . . . this is Firefly, over.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. He was trapped in the jungle, no way to get out, the president’s army all around them. The soldiers sure as hell didn’t have a clue they were the good guys, and if caught, no one would claim them—not even the man who had asked for help.

He swallowed hard. She was right about the clarity of the radio. It sounded as if she was whispering in his ear. He hoped she was right about the audio capability—she’d devised some new audio device that if they stayed under fifteen seconds with each transmission, was supposed to be impossible to detect. Just the sound of her voice made him want to hold her close.

“Burning Man, over.”

“Your ride is waiting.”

“Copy that, Firefly, ride is waiting, over.”

“Tell leader, problem taken care of. Home office clear as well. Firefly out.”

His heart jerked. It seemed a hell of a lot easier to run around jungles with enemies surrounding him when he had nothing to lose. The freighter was anchored and waiting for them. They just had to make it out to the boat.

Ryland’s team returned, looking as dejected as he felt. Kadan gave his report. Ryland’s echoed it. The port was too heavily guarded to chance it. They’d have to move on.

Firefly has our ride in place.
Sam was glad to give some good news.
Rye, the problem both in the general’s office and the one you wanted addressed has been taken care of.

Ryland’s nod was barely perceptible, but he looked pleased.

It was a long, slow walk skirting the town. Several times they ran into dogs, but Gator quieted them before they could bark and give the team away. On the other side of town, they once again split into two teams for another recon. Almost immediately Sam spotted a van. The vehicle didn’t look in much better shape than the truck had been, but it was transport. Old and rusty, the paint chipping, it would at least provide concealment as well as needed transportation. From what Sam had seen, most of the vehicles—and there weren’t many—were in the same condition.

Gator and Sam crept slowly to the edge of town where the vehicle sat. A dog barked somewhere close and Gator turned his head toward it. The dog let out a soft whine and ceased barking. Sam went down on one knee and guarded Gator’s back while the Cajun hot-wired the van. Gator sent Sam a triumphant grin when the van rumbled to life. Sam jumped in on the other side and they got out of there quickly. A quarter mile away, they paused at the edge of the road long enough for the others to jump in the open side door.

“Wonderful carriage,” Kyle quipped.

“Nice work,” Ryland commented.

The van creaked and moaned, but it was running and that was all that counted. They only needed to get another ninety-two miles according to the GPS. Having a vehicle, even though it was rusted in three spots on the floorboards, allowing them to see the road beneath flashing by, meant they would make their destination by daybreak.

It was a long trip as a few more cars occasionally shared the road with them. Once a truckload of soldiers rumbled past and all of them held their breath, grateful the van was closed and nearly impossible to see into in the dark. Gator simply slowed and moved to the side, allowing the truck to rumble past them.

“Stop strokin’ that gun, Kyle,” Gator said. “You’re makin’ me nervous. I’m thinkin’ you’re about to make love to the damn thing.”

“She is purty,” Kyle said, giving the gun one last caress, his eyes watching the truck ahead. “Slow down a little, and let them get ahead of us, Gator.”