“This ‘Fed,’ was he FBI?”
“Some kind of badge I couldn’t make out. He was driving a Ford Excursion, a brown one.”
Jeannine broke in.
“That’s like the car that followed me to Camp Geiger!”
“That’s Holder’s car. It’s Byrd. He carries that anonymous ID. We’ll go back to the cabin with Fred. Byrd will come for the briefcase. I’d rather face him on turf of my choosing.”
“So he won’t give up?”
“He can’t afford to. I’m sure he’s back looking for us now.”
Jeannine clutched the laptop while Bill grabbed the canvas case with one hand and held the shotgun with the other. Even birdshot, if to the face, would stop any man.
He nodded to Fred. Together they started back to the shack.
***
At the formerly “safe” Morton house in Dillon, Jack Marino yelled at his partner, Stew Marks.
“Stew, what’s wrong with you? You let Wayne Johnson go free. He’s harbored two fugitives.”
“Calm down, Jack. Johnson and I have an understanding. I’ve impounded his Buick. He drove the rental back to Topsail. He won’t leave the beach house. I have his word.”
“His word? I hope you know what you are doing.”
The roar of a descending helicopter drowned out his words. Stew waited before speaking.
“Jack, I want you in the chopper to search the Little Pee Dee swamps. Find Ryan and Hamm and Johnson won’t matter. And if you see Byrd, watch your back!”
Jack snorted and headed for the waiting chopper.
***
Hugh Byrd was still in the hunt. Once out of sight of Fred, he had parked his car and taken up his M16. The 60-round magazine plus a thirty-rounder from the trunk loaded him down, but Hugh wanted the extra firepower.
He heard a helicopter in the distance. The FBI had enlarged their search circle and the chopper was far beyond the crossing that he had guarded. They were looking for Hamm and Ryan outside the radius of the day before. Good!
Loaded as he was, Hugh jogged down the road to the spot where he had left Fred.
***
In an apartment in Florence, South Carolina, a Hutu woman, Agathe Muteteli, prepared breakfast. Her husband, Pierre Sehene, a graduate student in electrical engineering at Carolina Technical University, was still asleep.
But she was happy. In June, Pierre would finish his degree, and a tech company in Columbia had a position for him. They had a future. At last, they would outlive the tragedy in Rwanda.
She heard the bedroom door open and familiar footsteps.
“Pierre, you’re late. You’ll miss class.”
“No matter. I quit. I don’t need another degree. No more late night cramming. I’m done.”
He leaned to grab her waist, but she pulled away.
“What do you mean?’ What about your Master’s degree, and the job in Columbia.”
He laughed and threw a wad of bills on the counter.
“We’ll have more money than you can imagine.”
“Did Maximilien give you this?”
“Yes, I’ve joined him.”
“Now you are for sale? Pierre, give it back. It’s bloody. His father was a murderer and so is he.”
“We all were.”
“You were only twelve, a boy. You are different now, and you confessed in the Gacaca court of your village. You are forgiven. We have a new life in a new country.”
“You don’t understand. We are Hutu. With Maximilien, we will go back to Rwanda as rightful rulers. We are the majority.”
“Pierre, Maximilien Gutera hates Tutsi’s. He’s a murderer. Don’t do this!”
“Agathe, you shame yourself. You are Hutu. I am Hutu. Maximilien is our leader. It is settled.”
“If you go with that murderer, I will leave you. I will not watch you throw your life away. Choose! It’s me or Maximilien.”
Agathe shut her eyes, hoping.
But the door slammed.
When she opened her eyes the wad of money was gone from the counter.
***
In the motel in Dillon, Henri Duval slumped in his chair, alternately dozing and watching the door. The room was dark because the curtains were drawn, but a bright sun shone through the vertical gap between the drapes. Angelique still slept.
Henri laid his head back. He must have imagined that the man in the restaurant last night knew Angelique.
His gaze fell on the floor. Next to the door was a piece of paper, evidently the bill for the room. But too early? They were to stay another night.
But it was not a bill.
Duval,
Denise Guerry sends you this message. She forgives you for your Rwandan playmate, but you must leave the girl now. She told Gutera where you are. Get out now and she will reward you personally for your service. If you don’t leave the girl she will not be able to help you.
P. S. I’m the Irishman you spotted at dinner. Your friend is a tantalizing dish, but you can’t save her. Save yourself. Denise will blame me if you don’t. We never met but you know my name.
Ian
Henri stared in disbelief. He shook Angelique to wake her.
“Henri, what?”
He put his finger to his lips.
“Shsss. Gutera’s men are on the way. They could be here already. We have to run.”
There was nothing to pack. Angelique slipped into her jeans. Henri took his Browning from its holster and held it ready as he turned the deadbolt. He peered into the corridor.
“OK, the hall’s clear. Let’s go.”
He seized her wrist and headed for the door to the stairwell. He stopped. Someone had moved on the other side.
Henri tried to step away, but too late. The door opened and the blond Irishman, Ian, stood before them. He pointed the Beretta at Henri’s nose.
“Duval, you dumb ass, they’ll kill you too.”
“So you’re ‘Ian.’ You’re no assassin. Stand aside.”
“Don’t be a fool, Duval. Denise wants you.”
Henri shifted the weight on his feet, but Ian caught the movement and his finger tightened on the trigger. Henri understood. He stopped. He had heard of Ian’s prowess.
“Ian, I was in Rwanda. You will have to shoot me because I won’t let Gutera’s beasts rape and chop this woman.”
He looked into Ian’s eyes.
“And I know you are not a beast. I’d bet my life on it.”
Henri opened the door and pushed Angelique into the stairwell.
Ian stared, but did not shoot.
At the first landing Henri paused and shouted upwards.
“Ian, I owe you for this.”
Then he dashed down the stairs pulling Angelique after him.
Outside, they found their car and drove away.
***
The black Audi pulled up to the motel in Dillon, South Carolina. A tall African emerged from the driver side and walked to the front desk. His English was flawless.
“You have a Monsieur Duval registered here, Room 260?”
“I have a Mr. and Mrs. Duvalier in 260.”
“That’s them. Are they in the room now?”
The clerk shrugged and reached for the phone. The tall man, Pierre Sehene, moved effortlessly and gripped the clerk’s wrist.
“It is not necessary to call them. You also have an Ian Callahan staying here, in room 160. He is supposed to meet me. Would you ring his room for me.”
“I’m sorry Sir, but he checked out an hour ago.”
Pierre’s eyebrows shot up. He turned and strode out. At the Audi he leaned in the back window and spoke to his boss, Jules.
“Guerry’s man Callahan has gone. Something is wrong.”
“Take Louis Makuza and check Duval’s room. Don’t hurt Uwimana. Maximilien has decided to bed her before he kills her.”
But Pierre and Louis returned empty handed. There was no one in room 260, and Duval’s car was not in the lot. Dismayed, Jules Habimana sat in the
back seat of the Audi. He shuddered. Two failures in three days! He dreaded informing Maximilien.
He signaled Pierre to return to Florence.
***
In the woods near Dillon, South Carolina, Fred Middleton led Bill Hamm and Jeannine Ryan back to the shack without incident. Inside, he looked at Bill and pointed to a shelf.
“Those are buckshot cartridges in that coffee can. You can borrow a couple. Dump that dumb birdshot. I have to get home. I got chores to do. I’ll be back in the morning.”
Pump action in hand, Fred pushed into the scrub and disappeared amid the shadowy pines. Jeannine watched him go.
“Bill, the laptop only has six percent power left, maybe 10 minutes. I have to stop decoding and shut down, and we still don’t know Gutera’s plans. Remember the Strontium graphs. He could be planning a nuclear event.”
“They don’t have the capability to produce a nuclear bomb.”
“So, maybe only a dirty bomb? We have to leave. I can’t operate from this shack, and we have to stop Gutera.”
“We won’t be able to stop anything if Marks locks us up.”
“But we can show him these messages and other stuff.”
“No one will see it. The minute they arrest us, Byrd and his men will scream ‘National Security’ and seize everything. And Byrd is nearby, you can bet on it.”
“Great, we can’t trust the good guys or the bad ones.”
Dusk fell, but Bill did not light the kerosene lamp. He put a buckshot shell into the shotgun, and sat facing the door.
***
******
Chapter 24
Saturday, September 1
Stew Marks and Jack Marino sat inside a McDonald’s in Dillon, South Carolina where Jack lamented the search of the day before.
“Stew, the river swamps are thick. You can’t see much from the air.”
“At least you know Hamm and Ryan weren’t on the open river in a boat. The Little Pee Dee dumps into the Lumber River. That’s one way they could get to the coast.”
“They still could have been on the river. They could have heard us coming and ducked under the trees in some backwater.”
“Maybe, but I’ll bet they are holed up somewhere close by. I bet our helicopter spooked them from open roads, and the river too. Hamm is not dumb.”
“He may not be dumb, but he’s a damned traitor, a spy. And you know what the rat did to me during those hearings on the Unity Pavilion attack. Have you gone soft on him?”
“Hamm has loyal friends, like Johnson, and Jeannine Ryan. I can’t believe that she is all bad.”
“Damn it, Stew. That woman has messed with your head since you first questioned her. Forget her. And you trusted Johnson. You let him go! What’s wrong with you? You’re my partner!”
“Would you rather I trust Hugh Byrd?”
“So Byrd is a scumbag, how does that help Ryan and Hamm?”
“Jack, that is precisely what I aim to find out.”
Stew took a last swallow of coffee and stood up.
“Come on Jack, you and I are going for a hike. This time we search on foot.”
***
Somewhere on Interstate 26, northwest of Charleston, South Carolina, Angelique Uwimana moaned and lifted her head from a pillow made from Henri’s jacket rolled into a ball.
“Henri, where are we?”
From behind the wheel, Henri, twisted to see Angelique. She was in the back seat.
“We're not to Summerville yet. I was tired and had to pull off. Are you hungry?”
Her head ached and food was far from her thoughts.
“No. But Henri, I have to meet my professor Monday morning about my thesis. How?”
“That’s not possible. No way can we go to Florence, or the university. That’s Gutera’s turf.”
“But my thesis?”
“We’ll find a café in Charleston where you can email him. Meanwhile, hungry or not, I’m going to find you some food. We can’t stay here.”
He turned the ignition and drove onto the highway. She sat up.
“Henri, what did that man ‘Ian’ mean when he said Denise Guerry wanted you. Have you slept with her?”
The image of the delicious Denise flashed before him. Guilt swallowed all logic. He stammered.
“Angelique, any man would find Denise desirable, but … ”
“So you would if you could.”
“But I love you. That woman told Gutera where we were. She wants …”
He started to say “you,” but switched.
“She wants us dead.”
He twisted to look back and saw the grief in her eyes. The car swerved into the adjacent lane.
“Henri, watch the road!”
He swung back into his lane and looked in the rearview mirror. Angelique’s eyes had closed. She appeared to sleep.
But Henri had another reason to watch the mirror, to look for cars following them, particularly of French, or German, make.
***
Hugh Byrd was a man of many skills, including the art of survival. Since his days on bivouac as a paratrooper, he had honed those skills. Yesterday and today they had served him well.
He peered through the brush to study the shack in front of him. The structure consisted of three-quarter-inch plywood supported, presumably, by interior two by four studs. A lone window was shuttered from within by similar plywood while a thin dwindling plume of smoke wafted upwards from the tin stove pipe at the rear of the roof.
Hugh smiled.
The smoke indicated the presence of his prey.
The shack’s plywood walls were no obstacle. They were little better than paper at stopping his 5.56 caliber, 55 grain, ammo. His only worry was that the penetration might be too clean. He wanted the exiting bullets to fragment the wood into lethal splinters that would fill the room.
He studied the door. It was heavy and thick, somewhat resistant to penetration, and thereby more likely to splinter. He took a position to the front of the cabin and raked the flimsy structure with bursts of fire.
“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup.”
At a head-on ninety degree impact, clean holes appeared in the plywood as well as the door. He continued.
“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrup.”
He moved quickly and fired more bursts at an angle.
“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrup.”
This time splintered holes marked the passage of the bullets. He let go again.
“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup.”
He still had lots of rounds in his magazine. Forget the damned angle, he went to his right and raked the side walls, straight on.
“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup.”
Again!
“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrup.”
Done!
Hugh dropped the spent magazine and jammed his backup in place. Holding the M16 at the ready, he went to the front. He would grab the briefcase and leave the bodies for Marks to clean up. He pulled the door aside and looked in.
Empty!
What the hell?
He heard a step behind him and turned. Too late! The butt end of a shotgun smashed against the side of his skull.
Hugh dropped senseless to the ground.
***
In the pine woods some distance away, Stew Marks stopped to listen.
“Did you hear that, Jack? That was automatic fire.”
Jack Marino turned in the direction of the sounds.
“You’re right. There it goes again, three-round bursts.”
Stew seized Jack’s arm and pointed.
“Over that way! Hamm and Ryan don’t have automatic weapons. That’s Byrd. The bastard has caught up to them.”
They started in the direction of the gunfire, only to find their way blocked by impassable dark waters studded with gum and cypress trees.
***
After an hour of watery dead ends, Stew halted, hand
to his ear.
“Jack, those are voices ahead. That way.”
Stew drew his Beretta. Jack did likewise and disappeared to the left. They moved in parallel through the pines.
Ahead Stew heard a woman.
“That’s an M16. That guy tried to kill you!”
A man spoke in reply, but his words were indistinguishable.
Stew continued to his right until a voice from behind stopped him.
“Hold it, fellow. Stow the gun and tell me who you are.”
The voice belonged to a man with gray hair. A pump action shotgun rested casually in his arms.
“I’m with the FBI, let me show you my ID.”
“Never mind. Are you agent Stewart Marks?”
“I am.”
“He told me you would come. I’m Fred Middleton. These are my woods.”
“Who do you mean, ‘He?’”
“Some fellow called Hamm.”
“Hamm! Where is he?”
Fred shrugged. Stew persisted.
“I heard a woman’s voice too. Where is Miss Ryan?”
“Ryan? I don’t know. You must have heard Mary-Jean, she’s a deputy sheriff. I called her to handle a problem I have. If you follow me to my cabin. I’ll show you.”
He pointed into the brush.
“And call your friend out here. Both of you need to see this.”
Stew signaled to Jack to step into the open.
Together they followed Fred along the edge of the swamp.
***
When they arrived at Fred’s cabin, Stew stopped and stared.
Bound to a stout pine, hair matted with dried blood, was Hugh Byrd.
“Stew, thank God. Tell these yokels to let me loose. Show them my ID. Tell them who I am.”
But Fred stepped in front of Hugh.
“Hold on there, Mister Marks.”
He pointed to a weapon leaned against the house.
“That’s an M16. Your ‘Fed’ friend tried to kill me. See the holes in my cabin. They’re more than forty. It’s just luck that I saw him coming and got out first.”
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 17