GhostWalkers 4 - Conspiracy Game

by Christine Feehan

  Jack moved forward inch by inch, until he was out in plain sight, his skin and clothing now reflecting the deeper colors of the ground. Night had fallen, and the sounds emerging from the interior of the forest had changed subtly. A cheetah coughed in the distance. Birds called to one another as they settled in the higher canopy. The chimpanzees quieted as the larger predators emerged. The insects grew louder, a continual sound that never ceased. Fog rolled in over the mountains and drifted into the forest and along the floor.

  Jack kept moving steadily across the ground, heading for the area where the guards were heaviest, his goal the circle of vehicles with the cargo inside. The main armory would be a bunker at the central camp, but all the outlying camps had to carry supplies with them—and they would keep those supplies under heavy guard and as mobile as possible. That meant in the vehicles. The jeeps and trucks were parked a short distance away from the camp for safety.

  The guards were set six feet apart. Most were smoking or talking, or watching the surrounding jungle. The two closest were taking bets on what the major would do to the prisoner when they got him back. Jack slithered through the grass to the first jeep parked in the tight circle. He rolled beneath it and examined the area with a cautious lift of his head. The arms were in crates in the truck to the center of the circle, right where he’d guessed they would be. He made his way to the back of the covered truck and once again waited in the grass while the beetles crawled over his body. When the closest guard looked away, Jack went up the bumper and leapt in like a human spider.

  They were well supplied with guns. He helped himself to several clips for the M16s as well as for a nine-millimeter handgun he took. The boxes contained assault rifles, belts and cans of ammunition, as well as crates of clips. Boxes of grenades were toward the front, and claymore mines with detonators and wire were at the back.

  Jack had shifted back toward the tailgate, needing to stash his supplies, when a bloody barrel caught his eye. His heart jumped in his chest as he reached down to clear debris from the weapon. The sniper rifle had been carelessly thrown in with a crate of AK47s. It was a Remington, covered in his brother’s blood, even bearing a few smudged prints. He recognized it immediately; it had never been treated with other than the utmost respect. He picked it up and cradled it to him, running his hand over the barrel as if he could wipe away what had been done.

  Jack’s fingers tightened on the rifle as memories poured over him. Sweat broke out on his body and he shook his head, driving away the sound of childish screams and the feel of pain and humiliation, the sight of his brother staring at him, tears streaming down his face. That face changed to that of a man’s, and Ken was looking at him with that same despair, that same pain and humiliation. When Jack lifted him, he had been horrified to see that the skin had been peeled from Ken’s back, leaving a raw mass of muscle and tissue covered in flies and insects. He heard the screaming in his own head and looked down at his hands and saw blood. There was no washing it away and there never would be. He breathed deeply, forcing his mind away from the madness of his constant—and all too real—nightmares.

  Major Biyoya had a lot to answer for—and torturing Ken was first on the list. Jack wasn’t walking away quietly. He’d never just walked away in his life. It wasn’t in him and never would be. Biyoya was going to be brought to justice—his justice—one way or another—because that was what Jack did.

  He slung the rifle around his neck, tucking the scope and shells into an ammo belt. As fast and efficiently as possible, he gathered his weapons, using a pack from the back of the truck. The nine-millimeter handgun was a must. He took as many grenades, blocks of C4, and claymore mines as he could carry. Loaded down, he crept to the tailgate of the truck and peered out. The guards were watching the cleanup of the mess he’d made of the camp. Jack went out of the truck headfirst, going down to the ground and sliding beneath the truck for added cover.

  It was a much more difficult challenge to move his supplies from the circle of vehicles back to the jungle. He inched his way, feeling the numerous bites from insects, the oppressive heat, the ground and grasses tearing up his body, and the mind-numbing fatigue. He could no longer block the fiery pain of his various wounds. In spite of the darkness, it took longer than he’d anticipated crossing the open circle and making his way through the guards.

  He was nearly away from the vehicles when one of the guards turned abruptly and walked straight toward him. Jack froze, sliding his cache of weapons under the broadleaf plant closest to his hand. He had no choice but to lie prone in the darkness, relying on the camouflage of his body. The guard called to a second one and the man ambled over, shifting his rifle across his body. They spoke in Congolese, a language Jack was somewhat familiar with, but they were speaking rapidly, making it difficult to make out everything they were saying.

  The Fespam Music Festival in Kinshasa was supposed to be larger and even better with the performances that had been brought over from Europe this time, and the guard desperately wanted to go because the Flying Five were performing. The general had promised them they could go, but unless they found the prisoner, no one would be going anywhere. The other guard agreed and dropped a cigarette almost on Jack’s head, crushing it with the toe of his boot before adding his own complaints.

  Jack’s breath stilled. The Flying Five. What kind of a coincidence could that be? Or was it sheer luck. Jebediah Jenkins was a member of the Flying Five and he had served with Jack in the SEALs. If Jack could make his way to Kinshasa and find Jebediah, he could get the hell out of Dodge—or would he be walking into another trap?

  The moment the guards moved on, he began to inch toward the forest again. Once into the heavier foliage, he went up into the trees, stashing his supplies and taking the time for another satisfying drink. He repeated the trip into the circle of vehicles, making his way back through the guards to the supply truck. This time, he went for more claymore mines, wires, and detonators. Patience and discipline went hand in hand with his profession, and he had both in abundance. He took his time, thorough in his setup, never once allowing his mind to freeze under the pressure, not even when soldiers nearly stepped on him.

  He wired the beaten path leading into the jungle—tents, the outhouse, and every remaining vehicle. Minutes turned into hours. It was a long time to be in the enemy camp, and he felt the strain. Sweat dripped into his eyes and stung. His chest and especially his back were on fire, and his leg throbbed with pain. Infection in the jungle was dangerous, and he’d been stripped of his gear and all medical supplies.

  Somewhere in the distance Jack caught the cry of the chimpanzees and immediately sorted through the sounds in the rain forest until he caught the one he was waiting for—the sound of movement through brush. Biyoya was bringing his soldiers home, wanting to wait until they could examine the damp ground for tracks. Jack knew Biyoya would have confidence in regaining his prisoner. Rebel camps were spread throughout the region, and few villagers would risk death and retribution by hiding a foreigner. Major Biyoya believed in torturing as well as ethnic cleansing. His reputation for brutality was widespread, and few would be willing to oppose him.

  Jack finished his last task without haste, before beginning to crawl backward toward the jungle. He angled his entry away from the well-used trail and into the thicker foliage. The smell of the returning soldiers hit him hard. They were sweating from the suffocating heat in the interior. He forced himself to maintain his slow pace, making certain not to draw the eyes of a sentry to him as he slipped under the creeper vines and broadleaf plants surrounding the camp.

  He lay for a moment, his face in the muck, and let himself breathe before pushing to his feet and running in a crouch back toward the taller trees. He could hear the soldiers’ breath blasting out of their lungs as they hurried back to their camp, their angry leader berating them every step of the way.

  Jack stood for a moment under the chosen tree, breathing his way through the pain, gathering his strength before crouching and leap
ing up to the nearest broad branch. He worked his way from branch to branch until he was in the thickest of them, sitting comfortably, his brother’s rifle cradled in his arms while he waited. The night was comforting, the familiar shadows home.

  The first group of rebels came into sight, in a semiloose formation, eyes wary as they tried to pierce the veil of darkness for any enemies. Two jeeps had gone out with the group, taking the muddy, torn-up road that curved away from the forest and then looped back for miles into the interior. The jeeps were coming toward camp, motors whining and mud splattering around them. The main body of soldiers came through the trees, still spread out, guns at ready, nervous as hell.

  Jack fitted the scope to his brother’s rifle and calmly loaded the shells in.

  The blast was loud in the quiet of the night, sending a fireball into the sky. It rained metal and shrapnel, sending debris slamming into the camp and embedding metal into trees. The screams of dying men mingled with the cries of birds and chimpanzees as the world around them exploded into orange red flames. The lead jeep had hit the wire right at the entrance to the camp, tripping the claymore and blowing everything around it into pieces. The soldiers hit the ground, covering their heads as fragments rained from the sky.

  Jack kept his eye to the scope. Biyoya was in the second jeep, and the driver instantly veered away from the fireball, nearly spilling the passengers as the vehicle careened wildly through the trees. Biyoya leapt out, ducking into the foliage, screaming at the soldiers to fan out and look for Jack.

  Using the chaos of explosions and screaming men as cover, Jack squeezed the trigger, taking out one of the soldiers on the edge of the forest. Switching targets, he rapidly fired three more times. Four shots—four kills. Not wanting the soldiers to spot where he was firing from, Jack immediately caught hold of a vine and went down headfirst on the opposite side of the tree from the soldiers, crawling hand over hand, until he could flip to the ground. He landed softly on the balls of his feet, fading into the overgrown ferns and dropping to his belly. Through the brush, he could slither along the almost invisible game trail that brought him up behind Biyoya’s personal guard.

  Jack rose up, a silent phantom, blade in hand. He went in fast and hard, careful to make certain the guard couldn’t give away his presence with a single sound. Jack slipped back into the foliage, his skin and clothes blending with his surroundings.

  Biyoya turned to say something to his guard and let out a shocked yell, leaping back away from the dead man and ducking around his jeep. He shouted to his soldiers and they sprayed the jungle with bullets, lighting up the night with the flashing muzzles. Leaves and branches fell like hail, raining from above, and several soldiers went down, caught in the cross fire. Biyoya had to shout several times again to establish control. He ordered another sweep through the surrounding forest.

  The soldiers looked at one another, obviously not happy with the command, but they obeyed with reluctance, once again shoulder to shoulder, walking through the trees. Jack was already back in his tree, leaning his weary body against the thick trunk.

  He slumped down, but kept his eye to the scope in hopes of getting a clear shot at Biyoya. He tried to keep any thought of home and his brother from his mind, but it was impossible. Ken’s body—so bloody—so raw. There hadn’t been a place on him that wasn’t bleeding. Had Jack been too late? No way. He’d know if his brother was dead—and if it was at all possible, Ken would come for him. Even now, might be close. Intellectually Jack knew better—knew Ken’s wounds were too severe and that he was safe in a hospital thousands of miles away—but he couldn’t stop himself. Jack reached out along their telepathic path, the way he’d been doing since they were toddlers, and called his brother. Ken. I’m in a fucking mess. You there, bro?

  Silence greeted his call. For one terrible moment, his resolve wavered. His gut churned and fear swamped him. Fear for his own situation and something nearly amounting to terror for his brother. He held out his hand, saw it shake, and shook his head, forcing his mind away from destructive thoughts. That way lay his own destruction. His job was to escape, to survive, to make his way to Kinshasa.

  The soldiers tramped through the forest, using bayonets to thrust into the thick shrubs and ferns. They stabbed the vegetation on the floor and walked along the banks of the stream feeding into the river, blades pounding the damp embankment. The jeep slowly began to move, only the driver and soldiers surrounding it vulnerable as they made their way past the wreckage of the first vehicle into camp.

  Jack lowered the rifle. It was going to be a long night for the soldiers. In the meantime, he had to plan his way to freedom. He was west of Kinshasa. Once in the city, he could find Jebediah and hide until they found a way to call for extraction. It sounded simple enough, but he had to work his way through the rebel encampments between Kinshasa and his present position. He wasn’t going to kid himself; he was in bad shape. With so many open wounds, infection was a certainty rather than a possibility.

  Weariness stole over him. Loneliness. He had chosen this life many years ago, the only choice he had at the time. Most of the time he never regretted it. But sometimes, when he sat thirty feet up in a tree with a rifle in his hands and death surrounding him, he wondered what it would be like to have a home and family. A woman. Laughter. He couldn’t remember laughter, not even with Ken, and Ken could be amusing at the most inopportune times.

  It was too late for him. He was rough and cold and any gentleness he might have been born with had been beat out of him long before he was a teenager. He looked at the people and the world around him stripped of beauty, seeing only the ugliness. It was kill or be killed in his world, and he was a survivor. He settled back and closed his eyes, needing to sleep for a few minutes.

  He woke to the sounds of screams. The sound often haunted him in his nightmares, screams and gunfire, and the sight of blood running in dark pools. His hands curled around the rifle, finger stroking the trigger even before his eyes snapped open. Jack took a long, deep breath and looked around him. Flash fires came from the direction of the camp. Several of his traps had been sprung, and once again chaos reigned in the rebel encampment. Bullets spat into the jungle, zipped through leaves and tore bark from trees. The ghost in the rain forest had struck again and again, and fear had the rebels by the throats.

  On and off over the next few hours, some hapless soldier tripped a trap, probably trying to get rid of it, and the camp would erupt into pandemonium, confusion, and panic nearly leading to rebellion. The soldiers wanted to head for the base camp and Biyoya refused, adamant that they would recover the prisoner. It was a tribute to his leadership—or cruelty—that he was able to rally them after each attack. There was no sleep for anyone, and the fog crept into the forest, blanketing the trees and mixing with the smoke from the continual fires.

  Through the haze, Jack saw the camp on the move, abandoning their position. Biyoya screamed at his men and shook his fist at the camp, the first real indication that the long night had taken its toll on him. He’d lost more than half of his soldiers, and they were forced to group in a tight knot around him to protect him. They didn’t look very happy, but they marched stoically through the forest on the muddy, torn road.

  The rain began again, a steady drizzle that added to the stirring life of the jungle. Chimpanzees resumed their eating and birds flitted from tree to tree. Jack caught a glimpse of a boar moving through the brush. An hour went by, soaking his clothes and his skin. He never moved, waiting with the patience born of a lifetime of survival. Biyoya would have his best trackers and sharpshooters concealed, and they would wait for him to make a move. Major Biyoya didn’t want to go back to General Ekabela and admit he’d lost skilled soldiers to his prisoner. His escaped prisoner. That kind of thing would lose the major his hard-earned reputation as a ruthless interrogator.

  Jack’s eyes were different, had always been different, and after Whitney had genetically enhanced him, his sight had become amazing. He didn’t understand the workin
gs, but he had the vision of an eagle. He didn’t care how it was done, but he could see distances few others could conceive of. Out of the corner of his eye, movement to the left of his position caught his attention, the colors in bands of yellow and red. The sniper moved cautiously, keeping to the heavier foliage, so that Jack only caught glimpses of him. His spotter kept to the left, covering every step the sniper took as he examined the ground and surrounding trees.

  Jack began a slow move into a better position, but halted when he heard a feminine scream in the distance followed closely by a child’s frightened cry. Jack jerked his head up, his body stiffening, sweat breaking out on his brow and trickling down into his eyes. Did Biyoya know his trigger? His one weakness? That was impossible. His mouth went dry and his heart slammed in his chest. What did Biyoya know about him? Ken had been brutally tortured. There wasn’t a square inch on his twin’s body that hadn’t been cut with tiny slices or stripped of skin. Could the interrogation have broken Ken?

  Jack shook his head, denying the thought, and wiped the sweat from his face, the movement slow and careful. Ken would never betray him, tortured or not. The knowledge was certain, as much a part of him as breathing. However he’d gotten his information, Biyoya had set the perfect trap. Jack had to respond. His past, buried deep where he never looked, wouldn’t let him walk away. Trap or not, he had to react, take countermeasures. His gut knotted up and his lungs burned for air. He swore under his breath and put his eye to the scope again, determined to take out Biyoya’s backup.

  The woman screamed again, this time the sound painful in the early morning dawn. The knots in his belly hardened into something scary. Yeah. Biyoya knew, had information on him. He was classified, and the information Biyoya possessed was in a classified file with a million red flags. So who the hell sold me out? Jack rubbed his eyes again to clear the sweat from them. Someone close to them set the brothers up. There was no other explanation.