Samurai Game
Page 55

Sam used a small radio Azami had given him. “Firefly, Firefly, do you copy? This is Burning Man, over.”
“This is Firefly. Burning Man, we have you five by five, over.”
“Coming your way, over,” Sam said. “It’s a go.”
“Copy that, Burning Man, it’s a go. Waiting on you, over.”
“Give me that,” Ryland held out his hand for the tiny radio. He even snapped his fingers, impatience on his face.
Reluctantly Sam handed it to him. Ryland spoke into it. “Firefly, this is Burning Man leader. Are we secure, over.”
“Totally, Burning Man, over.”
“Duncan Forbes, CIA man holding hands with Whitney, made a call to someone at Bragg. I want them both. Do you copy?”
Sam sucked in his breath. Ryland had just included Azami in their trusted circle.
“Copy that, Burning Man, consider it done. Firefly out.”
CHAPTER 19
Misery was tramping through hostile jungle for thirteen hours with the steady fall of rain. Long, silver sheets dropped from the sky, the drops making their way through the thick leaves of the canopy to fall in an endless, relentless stream. Everything and everyone was thoroughly drenched. The trees seemed closer at night, the tangled vines, thick and roped, hanging like nooses over their heads, ready to trap them.
The team walked in single file in absolute silence, continually alert for snakes, animals, insects, and hostiles. Sam had been in the rainforests hundreds of times, but he couldn’t recall a more miserable journey. The feeling of being abandoned was strong, thrown away by an ungrateful government, left to die in a country they’d tried to help. He knew what Azami felt like, thrown away like so much trash. Anger mixed with trepidation with every step they took.
He was a man, trained for this shit. He’d signed on, knowing at any moment he could be burned. Azami had been an infant when Whitney had taken her from the orphanage. She’d been eight years old when Whitney had abandoned her on the streets of Japan. He’d experimented on her until he was certain her only use was a heart transplant the doctor was certain would kill her. Sick and dying, he’d had her flown in a box to Japan, taken by strangers to an alley known for sex trade, and dumped her—threw her away as he’d just been thrown away.
Anger smoldered in the pit of his belly—not for himself, but for Azami. Walking through a dark, hostile jungle couldn’t be any worse than a child waking up in a country she didn’t know, bruised and battered.
It was a four-day walk to Matadi and they wanted to find a car, but they needed a ride where a vehicle could actually travel, and most of the roads were blown to hell.
Kadan’s voice hissed a soft warning in his ear. Sam went down on one knee, sliding his gun into firing position. They all remained absolutely silent. Their point man just indicated trouble.
A rebel patrol moved like wraiths, filtering through the trees just a few meters from them. The patrol continued on past them, and Sam let out his breath, his muscles relaxing a little. The rebels suddenly halted, one man moving out of the line into the trees, just off the animal trail they were using as a path. He opened his fly and suddenly looked straight at Kadan.
Kadan was no more than a foot from him, blending into the shadows as he often did. The man blinked and looked away. Kadan didn’t move, remaining absolutely silent and still. Above his head the branch came alive, a snake lifting its head curiously to stare at the soldier. The reptile’s movement drew the rebel’s attention. He took a step closer, peering at the snake, machete raised. And then his eyes widened and he screamed, a high-pitched cry of absolute shock, to see a man so close to him.
“Contact, one o’clock!” Kadan yelled as he shot the soldier in the head.
The rebels opened fire simultaneously with the GhostWalker team, a mere five meters apart. The entire confrontation lasted forty-five seconds, but it seemed an eternity of hell with the shock of the bullets flying and men screaming. Monkeys screamed their fear and rage, adding to the chaos, and just that quickly, the jungle went silent.
Seven rebels lay dead, with the last one dying. Ryland signaled the men forward to quickly drag the dead deeper into the bushes and glean as much intel as possible, looking for maps and radio frequencies. The sound of gunfire could be heard for miles and they didn’t want to stay there any longer than necessary, nor did they want to draw more attention to themselves than they already had.
They set out fast, putting distance between the dead rebels and them, making good time as the night began to approach. Ryland called a halt and signaled to Kadan to find a good hide for a few hours’ sleep. They needed rest and food before they moved on.
Sam resisted the urge to use the radio just to hear Azami’s voice. The rain refused to slow down, pouring down as if trying to flood the area. Small rivulets ran all around them. They had to watch each other for leeches, removing them in stoic silence. They took turns sleeping and guarding for four hours before starting out again. The quick catnap helped take the edge off.
Moving at night was slow, but moving during the day was far more dangerous. They had too long of a way to travel to engage with the rebels too many times. Kadan abruptly stopped as the sun came up, signaling to hold. The GhostWalkers dropped to their knee and waited.
We’ve got a fairly well traveled road here, Rye, Kadan reported. We might pick up a vehicle if we keep close to it.
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.
Duncan 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 f**kers. 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.