by Paul Bishop
Sewell rotated the laptop and Bortz squinted for a closer look.
“Kick my ass if that ain’t a tusker. Why is it blue?”
“It’s blue because it’s an alien mutation. That, my friend, is a blue tusk. That one tusk would set us all up for life. And it has two.”
“You know what happened to the last team that went in there. None of them came out.”
“You mean Meachum? He was an amateur. I told you they weren’t coming out. Are you a Meachum?”
The man glared, affronted. “You know I’m no Meachum.”
Neither mentioned Sewell’s son Ian.
“All right, then. I want Zulu Ken, Dardeniz, and Ndugu.”
Bortz pulled his cell out. “Zulu’s in town. It’ll take the other two twelve hours.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re in Nairobi talking to the Chinaman.”
“Screw the Chinaman.”
“That’s what I say, but he has that Midas touch.”
The Chinaman, Omar Lee, sought ivory, rhino tusks, and whatever else they could get. Recently, they’d tried making inroads into South African diamonds and sparked a gang war that left three dead.
Lee’s poachers operated mostly in Kenya. Thus far, Sewell was the only man to lead a crew into the Biodome. They’d almost bagged one rhino but lost his younger son to an enormous creature that had ripped Ian in two like a paper doll. The beast was massive, easily as big as an elephant, and amorphous but covered in fur—all shadow and hair save for fangs and claws.
It had been Ian’s first foray and he’d been only eighteen. Zebulon had been on their ass all day and it was his idea to use the wall creature to drive Sewell back. His team had managed to herd the monster between the poachers and their intended target. No one loved the colossus and it was not protected, nor did anyone care whether it lived or died. Zebulon had cynically used it to thwart Sewell, and it had cost him his son.
They barely escaped with their lives and never recovered a body. Bodies didn’t last long in the Biodome.
Sewell texted Dareniz and Ndugu—Need You Addis Ababa ASAP.
He gave no address. They knew how to find him.
As the PA system blasted Mika’s “Big Girl, You Are Beautiful,” Zulu Ken entered the room amid a haze of cigarettes, marijuana, and whoonga and clutched a clay mug. He was seven feet tall with the hands of an NBA Center and had killed four men with a machete.
The newcomer sat, pulled a scarred wooden chair closer, and put his size-sixteen feet clad in sandals made from Goodyear tires on the seat. “What we up to?”
Martin showed him the picture. He put his feet down and leaned in to stare from beneath a pronounced occipital brow. “What de fock is that?”
“That’s a mutant elephant with a blue tusk.”
“Where is this creature?”
“Where do you think?”
“So we are going back into the Biodome.” It was not a question.
“This could set us all up for life.”
“You said that about the rhino.”
“You could always sell insurance.”
They had returned after that first failed mission and managed to capture a rhino, but once again, a counter-poaching patrol led by Arthur Zebulon had caught up with them in the desert. In the shootout, the captive had escaped and they never learned what happened to it. Maybe it simply disappeared like other creatures from the Biodome that died, although it had most likely snuck off while the humans were distracted in trying to kill one another. With two failed attempts, the entire operation had been a wash and had cost Sewell his son. But it had also proven that it was possible to enter the Biodome and bring the animals out.
It had been a combination of bad planning and bad luck. They had no choice but to escape through the French/Israeli sector. The Israelis notified the American sector who called in Zebulon. Sewell was forty miles south of Wall Three in two Hummers, the animal sedated in the second vehicle, when Zebulon and company dropped from a Blackhawk. The Americans knew he was hauling a rhino and wouldn’t fire on the raiders’ vehicles, so they spread out in their path and waited to shoot their tires, which led to the firefight, which led to the loss of the animal.
Once that happened, Zebulon had no interest in an ongoing firefight with the poachers, who were armed with chain guns. The team simply boarded the Blackhawk and chased the rhino into the desert. Sewell had no idea what happened to it.
An MI Halo might be able to lift that elephant. But where could they get a Halo? The aircraft had a huge profile and its approach could be seen from a thousand miles away. Over the Biodome was another story, as its peculiar atmosphere bent light and created odd prisms that swallowed light waves, blocked electronic transmissions, and played hob with navigation systems. He wondered whether those light waves reappeared in another universe. He was conversant with black holes, which had fascinated him as a child. One theory had it that everything that was sucked into a black hole was spewed out by a white hole in an adjacent universe.
That was simply science fiction, of course.
The Biodome was real. There’d even been a movie about it, Annihilation, starring Natalie Portman. Although technically not about the Biodome—a poorly kept secret—it was close enough to earn the producers a visit from the NSA.
Zulu Ken went upstairs with a hooker and Bortz began to blast Styx through his laptop—“Too Much Time On My Hands.” Sewell pulled a chunk of khat from a repurposed tobacco tin and chewed while he twisted the ivory ring on his left hand. It had been crafted from his first elephant nineteen years before. It had been easy enough to cut six inches off the tip to make jewelry and reshape the tusk so the buyer couldn’t tell. He gave one of the rings to his son Ron, who’d led a raid into the Biodome last year. Like his younger brother, the young man never returned. Sewell’s thoughts drifted to revisit past engagements—things he needed to forget rather than remember.
Bortz jabbed him and he opened his eyes.
Dardeniz and Ndugu had arrived.
3
Killing Time
Dardeniz was the color of graphite, a big man with a shaved skull and a gold earring who wore aviator shades. He only removed them to sleep. Sewell wondered how he could see in the dim environment. Ndugu was built like a tank, his wrists thicker than most men’s thighs. He had also shaved his skull, but his smiling face and friendly demeanor put people at ease, a valuable gift for an infiltrator.
The leader stood and they all hugged one another. Bortz went into the main room and returned a minute later with a slim waitress with a short black bob, black skirt, and stylish boots that came to mid-thigh.
“What are you boys having?” she said.
Dardeniz reached for her wrist. “Aren’t you lovely. What is your name?”
“Argenta. What can I bring?”
He ordered rum and the others whiskey. His gaze followed her out the door. Sewell passed his tin of khat. Once he’d checked to confirm no one was watching, he cued the image and showed it to the newcomers. Dardeniz lit a cigarette, inhaled, and emitted a low whistle.
“It looks like an elephant,” Ndugu said.
“Whatever it is, it’s close enough. The Chinaman would give his right nut for it.”
“Are we working for the Chinaman now?” Dardeniz said.
Ndugu hawked up a loogie and spat on the floor.
“No. I’m only saying that he is no doubt aware of it and that it is possible we have some competition.”
“So who’s the buyer?” Dardeniz said.
“I have contacted three potential buyers and am waiting. At midnight tonight, there will be a ten-minute online auction. The three buyers are Sergey Povetkin, Tam Lee, and Wendell Porter.”
“The film director?” Ndugu raised his eyebrows.
“Yes.”
“What would his fans say if they knew he was buying poached ivory?”
“They would praise him and beg him for his next movie.”
Porter had won the Best Pi
cture award twice, for Bumps On A Log, a searing indictment of America’s racist past, and Fiddle In the Middle, a story about a young man’s struggle with his own sexuality, in which he transitioned to female and won the Olympic Women’s Wrestling gold medal.
“I hear he has the biggest arsenal in Hollywood,” Ndugu said.
“I’ve heard that too,” Sewell confirmed. “You have the rest of the day to catch up on your sleep and do what you need to do. I’ve rented a house for us at this address.” He wrote it on a slip of paper and passed it to Ndugu who passed it to Dardeniz.
“Where’s Zulu Ken?” Dardeniz said.
“Here I am.” Ken strutted into the room with a smile on his face. “I just had my ashes hauled by the sweetest little piece of ass. She love me so much, she didn’t charge me.”
Dardeniz barked.
“Liar!” Ndugu said.
Argenta returned with a tray of drinks and set them on the table. Dardeniz took her wrist again. “Are you available for companionship?”
She pulled her hand back. “I am available for drinks. Go out front and you will find what you are looking for.”
He watched her again as she left.
“What?” Ken said. “You can’t find a suitable whore out there? There must be a dozen.”
“I like her.”
“Like someone else.”
“Are we driving the hell up there?” Ndugu asked.
“I’ve chartered a cargo plane to take us to Khartoum. We drive from there.” Sewell looked at his watch. It was a bad habit. “We depart in thirty-six hours.”
Zulu Ken unsnapped his holster, withdrew his Beretta nine, and sighted around the table.
“Put that away,” Bortz snapped.
The man mimed firing, blew imaginary smoke from the barrel, and replaced the pistol. Argenta returned to see if anyone wanted a refill. When she walked out, Dardeniz stood and followed. Sewell waited a minute and moved after him quickly.
The Congolese was a good mercenary, fearless and tough, but he had a problem with women. There were several outstanding rape warrants for him in South Africa. Sewell didn’t pretend to understand his men. They were all of a type—battle-hardened, cynical, and sure of themselves. War changed a man and seldom for the better. Zulu Ken and Bortz had good hearts despite their histories. Dardeniz, not so much. The last thing they needed was for him to cause some kind of stink.
Sudan was a Muslim country. Of course, it had prostitutes as every war-torn shithole did. But Argenta had made it clear she was not a prostitute. What would happen if Dardeniz became aggressive and pissed her family off? What if her family included militia?
The outer room was long, dark, and smoky from cigarettes, khat, marijuana, and cigars. It looked like something off the American frontier in the eighteen-hundreds. A long, ramshackle bar ran the length of one wall along which a series of mismatched stools of varying heights gave the patrons an uneven profile. Some of the stools had been looted from other bars and failed hotels. Others were homemade, a pipe sunk in a five-gallon drum filled with concrete and topped with a bicycle seat.
Behind the bar, two Somalians, judging from their waist wraps, poured drinks from a variety of bottles, marked and unmarked. The marked bottles were more expensive. Even at this hour, the bar held a dozen rough men coming off their jobs. Construction ran twenty-four-seven. There were no unions to enforce hours or safety, and considerable Chinese money was at work. Occasionally, one of the men would take the hand of a prostitute and head upstairs.
Sewell spotted Dardeniz across the room, where he gripped Argent’s wrist aggressively while she tried to pull away. Everything about her indicated that she wanted nothing to do with him. A bone-thin Sudanese in a white cap stepped forward to intervene. Without releasing the girl, Dardeniz cold-cocked him with one punch. The sound system blasted unintelligible rap and those around the fracas barely paid attention.
Sewell unbuttoned his holster, strode through the crowded room, and came up behind Dardeniz. He stuck the muzzle of his .45 beneath the big man’s chin.
“Leave the girl alone. If you jeopardize this mission, you’ll never work in Africa again.”
The man released Argenta and used two fingers to push the gun away gently.
“You know, big mon, one day, you push me too far. What I do on my own time is my business.”
“You’re on my time now. Find a girl who will have you, if you can. I’ll even pay for it.”
Dardeniz glared at him with mean little eyes, then smiled. It was a surface smile and paper-thin.
“As you wish, boss mon.”
He strode across the room to the line of prostitutes smoking cigarettes at the bar. Sewell put his gun away and headed for the house he’d rented a half-kilometer away in a no man’s land between rival gangs.
4
METRO in the French section was right out of Deadwood. The two-story building’s main room was open to the stamped tin ceiling with a second-floor walkway halfway back accessible by staircases at both ends. This level contained twelve rooms which rented by the hour, day, or week. It was the go-to place for mercenaries working to preserve the Biodome as well as the most popular watering hole on the perimeter. Techs, contractors, and military gathered there at any time of the day or night to shoot the breeze, trade info, buy drugs, or get laid. Old metal movie posters covered the walls—Casablanca, To Have And Have Not, Gunga Din, Viva Las Vegas. A couple of Toulouse Lautrec prints were tacked beside black-and-white photographs of combat teams.
It wasn’t Dawn Wilson’s venue of choice, but Zebulon insisted. They could have done the whole thing over the phone, but he was unusually stubborn. In many ways, the man was a throwback. He collected vinyl records at his home in Florida and only used a smartphone because work necessitated it, despised electric vehicles, and loved black-and-white movies. She thought it was perhaps his sense of adventure that caused him to hang around the nearest thing to Rick’s American Bar this side of Casablanca. Or he might simply be stubborn. Despite his quirks, there was no one she trusted more to stop poachers. He had proven himself time and again.
Wearing jeans and an unzipped gray hoodie, Dawn entered the bar at one o’clock in the afternoon. “Sweet Home Alabama” played on the sound system. A dozen mercs, roustabouts, and techies hung at the bar or at the round brown tables scattered around the room. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A hasty survey located Zebulon seated at a booth along the back wall, nursing a drink, and she headed over.
She sat opposite him and placed her North Face backpack on the bench beside her.
“This is definitely an elephant,” Zebulon said. He’d obviously received the latest footage she’d sent him.
“You can bet they’re looking at this in Beijing, Moscow, Nairobi, and Los Angeles. We expect an incursion through the Chinese sector, Sewell most likely. We’re trying to get a fix on him now but we think he might be in Addis Ababa. How fast will your team get here?”
Zebulon looked at his watch. “Is this merely an interception, or do you want data on the animal? My xenobiologist is in Paris but I’ve already briefed her. If she leaves tonight, she can be here tomorrow.”
“Jean Jan Jean?” She’d met her previously. “She looks like Furiosa,” she added inconsequentially
“She wears a beret.”
“I’m still not sure why you need a xenobiologist.”
Zebulon merely stared at her.
“We would like more data on the creature,” she continued when no response was forthcoming. “But stopping the poachers is job one. I’m not certain how long it will take Sewell to field a team but we can’t take any chances.”
“I’d feel better if Jean was with us. Let me call her now to confirm.”
Dawn went to the long bar and ordered a La Bebauche Black Ale India Stout. You could drink beer in the French sector—although technically, it was forbidden because Sudan was Sharia-compliant. When she returned to the table, he was still talking.
She took a swig of
the ice-cold beer while he finished the conversation and put his phone away.
“She’s leaving tonight and will fly into Khartoum at four tomorrow morning, God willing and the crick don’t rise. Can you chopper her up here?”
“Yes. I’ll put my boys on alert but keep me updated. We only have three Blackhawks and a Sea Ranger and they’re always busy. Somebody’s always getting hurt.”
“What’s the pay?”
Dawn poked at her phone and he glimpsed a calculator. “I can give you a million dollars. This is strictly shoot to kill. Do not mess with the elephant. Don’t go near it.”
“Are you running patrols?”
“Of course. I have one in right now, but they have their hands full. If there’s an elephant, they ain’t seen it. Who do you plan to use?”
“You already know about LeGac, Toynbee, and Taki. I’ve also called in the Montana brothers.”
“The cowboys?”
Zeb leaned back into shadow. With his cheekbones and squinty eyes, he belonged in a spaghetti Western. “Yeah. They’re already here.”
“From an admin perspective, they’re a little trigger-happy.”
“It depends on how you define trigger-happy.”
She smiled and showed her dimples but her eyes weren’t warm. “Every time they shoot someone while in our employ, I have to fill a report out. Not simply any report, but a big, important, ten-thousand-word exegesis on the whoop, wharf, and meaning of the shooting. Last year, the Montana brothers shot up a brothel in Nairobi and we had to pay out half a mil to keep them out of jail. That’s half a mil that would otherwise have gone into research.”
He put his hands behind his head and stretched, and the old wood seat creaked ominously. “Do you want to talk to them?”
“Yes. Let me know when everyone’s here. I need to know how many suits you require.”
“No suits.”
Dawn’s nose wrinkled in consternation. “You’re taking a risk.”