by Jeremy Bates
You didn’t feel a thing.
CHAPTER 40
Fitzgerald knew he was dying.
For the past hour or so he’d been pressing ahead through the difficult terrain on sheer willpower alone. The fight with the Israeli had taken away most of whatever strength remained after his interrogation in the chair. His legs continued to bleed profusely and were now surely infected. On top of that, the Australian’s tackle had broken at least two of his ribs, one of which had surely pierced a lung, for his breathing had become wheezy and bubbly and he continued to hawk up blood.
It seemed he now had two options. Remain where he was on the ground, close his eyes, and give up the good fight, drifting away quietly and peacefully. Or go out fighting.
He lumbered to his feet and started off in the direction the Israeli and leopard had gone.
“Stop!” Scarlett Cox yelled from behind him.
He ignored her and continued on, his eyes scanning the jungle floor to see whether the Israeli had dropped the machete in his panicked flight. With each step, more and more adrenaline flowed into his body, sweeping away his exhaustion and filling him with a much-needed reserve of strength.
He became acutely aware of every detail in the surrounding forest, every blade of grass brushing past his legs, every scent. He breathed in the peaty, mossy air, knowing it would be the last time he would experience the smell. That thought gave him a pang of regret. He had enjoyed his life immensely, and he didn’t want to die. Nevertheless, some things you simply had no control over. He understood that. And because he understood that, he accepted it.
Through the dense tangle of branches and bracken he made out the black hide of the leopard. It was hunched over the prostrate form of Danny Zamir—at least what remained of Danny Zamir. The man’s legs were bent at ugly angles. His stomach was torn open. The leopard had its snout in the soup of intestines. It tugged its head upward, pulling out a mouthful of stringy pink guts.
Six meters away the machete glinted silver on the dark scrub-covered forest floor. It was equal distance between Fitzgerald and the leopard.
Out on the African savannah, you could never sneak up on a leopard that had just made a recent kill. They remained extremely vigilant, knowing lions and hyenas would be close by, looking to steal the hard-earned meal. But here, in the jungle, the leopard was king. There was no other carnivore large enough to threaten it.
Fitzgerald crept forward, slowly and softly, making sure there were no sticks or twigs underfoot that might crack before stepping down with his full weight. The leopard remained unaware as it feasted on the Israeli. A dozen or so steps later he reached the machete. He squatted until his bound hands gripped the weapon. He rose again, sawing the rope that secured his wrists. The final twines parted with an audible snap.
The leopard glanced back over its shoulder and blinked at him with a very human-like twitch of surprise. For three long seconds it stared silently, snout and whiskers coated with blood. Then it curled back its lips and snarled, showing a flash of tongue and yellow fangs.
Fitzgerald planted his feet firmly in a fighting stance and turned his strongest side, his left side, forward, keeping his chest and hips at a ninety-degree angle to the leopard. He pressed his right elbow and arm against his side, to protect his ribcage, while bringing his left arm in front of his body, shielding his chest and abdomen. The blade of the machete hovered inches from his chin. He had never felt as alive as he did right then, facing down the formidable predator with nothing but an edged weapon. The knowledge of his inevitable death no longer caused him regret; it flooded him with an ecstasy that bordered on enlightenment. Every nerve ending buzzed with macabre excitement.
“Come on, kitty,” he snarled. “Come and get me.”
The black leopard charged, coming fast and hard at him on its short legs. He held his ground. The leopard leapt. At the very last second Fitzgerald ducked and spun, bringing the machete around in a semicircle. He swiped air. The leopard had been too quick, sailing past him, unharmed. He whirled to face the cat, which had landed on its feet. It was now padding back and forth, never taking its yellow eyes off him.
A grin split Fitzgerald’s face. “Not your average monkey, am I?” he said, his voice barely more than a dangerous rasp.
Monkeys—baboons especially—were the leopards’ main prey, and leopards knew exactly how to take down a primate. They lunged for the head or throat and, if finding purchase with their fangs, kicked down with their hind legs, tearing open the belly. Knowing this, Fitzgerald had anticipated the first attack and had been able to dodge it easily enough. But now the leopard knew he was aware of its MO, and it likely wouldn’t try the same approach twice.
It didn’t.
This time it came at him low, going for the legs. There was nothing he could do to block or avoid the attack. If he rolled left or right, the leopard would correct its course and pounce. It was much more agile than he was.
So he did the unexpected: he charged. The leopard, surprised, sprang off its feet, intent on coming down on top of its prey, the way a housecat does when toying with a mouse.
Fitzgerald shoved the machete as far as it would go into the leopard’s exposed underside, somewhere near the heart, just as the cat knocked him over with its nearly two-hundred-pound frame. The leopard began swatting his head with its paws.
Everything went black. Fitzgerald wasn’t sure if he passed out for seconds or minutes, but when his vision cleared, the leopard was collapsed on top of him, unmoving. The pungent, gamey smell of the beast filled his nostrils. He tried to shove the animal off him, but it was a halfhearted effort. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere. His eyes fluttered, then closed.
It was time.
Fitzgerald’s life did not pass before his eyes. History did. The history of warfare. What he’d dedicated the good part of the last decade to understanding. Wars and more wars and more wars, death and blood and suffering, the human condition. Something by Plato drifted through his dying thoughts: Only the dead have seen the end of war.
Darkness did not rise to greet him, only white light—white light that grew brighter and brighter, and in that brightness he saw the faces of Eryn and Biddy.
Damien Fitzgerald greeted death with a smile.
CHAPTER 41
After the Irishman took off into the jungle, Scarlett and Thunder had remained where they were, listening to the sounds of the subsequent fight. They hadn’t heard the Irishman make any noise. Not a single scream or cry or curse. In contrast, the leopard had hissed and growled and roared until the forest went suddenly quiet. Either the Irishman had killed the leopard, or the leopard had killed the Irishman. Either way, it was high time to get the hell out of there.
Thunder seemed to read Scarlett’s mind. Without a word, he took her hand in his and plowed south through the thicket. Light was fading fast, turning everything muted shades of gray. A seemingly endless prison of trees flashed past them. Branches slapped their heads and shoulders and arms. Scarlett didn’t think she could keep going, but she did, somehow she kept running, until finally the trees thinned and the river appeared, winding and black and glorious. She stumbled the last few yards to the bank and collapsed to her knees in a patch of soft grass. Her throat stung from exertion and her legs felt like they were made from overcooked spaghetti. She was so weak and nauseous she thought she might pass out.
Thunder knelt beside her. “Hate to be a downer,” he said, panting hard, “but we’re not out of this yet. We still have to find the riverboat. And the sooner, the better.”
She knew he was right. There would be time to rest later. She nodded.
“This is the plan,” he went on. “We head upriver along the bank for an hour or so. Try to cover a couple of kilometers. If we don’t find the boat, then we work out somewhere to sleep and backtrack the way we came in the morning. When we see that”—he pointed to a sixty-foot, single-stemmed marula with a spreading crown—“we know we’re back where we started. We continue for another couple kilom
eters downriver. In total that gives us almost four Ks along the bank.”
“And if we still don’t find the boat?”
“We work out a new plan.”
He held out his hand for her. She took it, pulling herself to her feet. Her legs were still mush, but she could stand on her own. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and it was now near dark. If they had still been in the jungle, they wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. But since there was no canopy of branches spanning the river, the sky was visible, the moon and stars bright enough for them to navigate the river’s vegetation.
They’d only been walking for a few minutes when Thunder stopped abruptly. She glanced up from the marshy ground, and what she saw turned her insides to gold. Because there it was, cast in the ethereal light of the moon and just visible through the overhanging branches of a mangrove tree.
The riverboat.
Scarlett turned to Thunder for confirmation she wasn’t imagining it. He grinned broadly at her. She threw her arms around him and mumbled something, nonsense, into his shoulder.
Thunder stepped apart. “I’m going to check it out. Make sure it’s clear. I’ll be back in a flash.”
She frowned. “Clear?”
“I know the Irish bloke said he took out the other two terrorists, but he’s not exactly the most reliable source, is he?”
Scarlett felt a fresh jab of fear. “I’m coming with you,” she said immediately, and before he could reply, she added: “Think about it, Thunder. If anybody’s there, and they kill you, then I’m dead anyway. What am I going to do out here by myself?”
He thought that over, then nodded reluctantly.
“Stay close,” he told her. “And keep your eyes peeled.”
They started forward side by side and came to the same muddy bank they’d climbed only the morning before. They slid down it, waded through the murky, smelly water, and pulled themselves up onto the stern deck. Thunder pointed to the main cabin. Scarlett nodded. They went to the window, looked inside. Empty. Thunder pointed to the top deck. Another nod.
They climbed the spiral staircase and poked their heads through the well-hole. The deck and pilothouse were deserted. Thunder held up his hand, palm forward, indicating he wanted her to wait where she was. He hurried over to the aft cabin and peered inside. He turned back to her and made the thumbs-up sign.
“Home free,” he said, grinning.
Scarlett snapped open her eyes. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
She was lying in the hammock in the aft cabin. Thunder was on the floor next to her, using an old blanket he’d found as a pillow. Earlier, they’d known they couldn’t navigate the river in the dark—it would be disastrous if they got beached on a sandbar or hit rocks—so they’d decided instead to get some rest and start out at first light.
Thunder, who must have been sleeping just as lightly as she, said, “Hear what?” His voice was quiet but alert.
“A splash.”
They listened in silence. The only noise was the patter of rain and the continuous drone of insects.
“Maybe it was a frog?” he said.
“It sounded bigger.”
“A croc?”
“Maybe.”
“What else could it be?”
“We don’t know for certain that Danny was killed. Or the Irishman, for that matter.”
Thunder shook his head. “They’re dead.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“You heard Danny.”
“Fine, yes,” she agreed. “But what about the Irishman? We didn’t hear him make a sound. Maybe he got away?”
“You saw him while we were walking through the jungle. He was on his last legs. I don’t know how he even made it as far as he did. That’s why he went off after the leopard, I reckon. He knew he was a goner. He wanted to die on his terms—”
Scarlett heard another splash.
“There!” she said, still whispering. “Did you hear that?”
This time Thunder nodded. He got silently to his feet and looked around the cabin. He picked up the sack of fruit from which they’d eaten earlier.
“What are you doing with that?” she said.
“I need a weapon.”
“Fruit?”
“See anything else?”
The door was open a crack. He pushed it open farther. A gust of cool, swampy air swept inside. Thunder went out first, Scarlett on his heels. The rain had picked up again sometime during the night, and it drenched them within seconds. They went to the portside railing, which faced the north bank of the river, and scanned the water below. It was midnight black and pockmarked by the falling raindrops, but otherwise undisturbed.
“I don’t see anything,” Thunder said.
Scarlett went to the starboard railing and peered over. Nothing. She returned to Thunder. “Maybe it was just a frog or crocodile after all.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Guess I overreacted. It’s just that after everything—”
“No worries. I understand. Let’s just get back inside. We stay out here any longer, we’re going to catch pneumonia.”
Scarlett nodded. At the cabin door, however, she glanced back over her shoulder one last time—and her heart seemed to stop in her chest.
Sticking up through the well-hole in the deck was the silhouetted shape of a head. In a silent flash of lightning she saw the face clearly.
Scarred, disfigured, horrible, it was the face of a monster.
It was Jahja.
CHAPTER 42
“Don’t move,” Jahja said, coming up the rest of the stairs. He held an AK-47 in his hands, pointed at them.
“You’re dead,” Scarlett said, not believing what she was seeing.
Another flash of lightning went off, and she saw that he did indeed look as if he were dead. His face was deathly white, his lips and chest and stomach covered with blood.
How could he be here? How? It’s impossible!
Her fear and confusion quickly gave way to anger. They should have checked to be sure he was dead, should have put a final bullet in him, like a stake through the heart of a vampire.
“Sal,” she went on. “Sal said he shot you. I saw you lying there.”
Jahja’s deformed lips curled into a weak smile. “I guess you underestimate my will to live, Miss Cox. As I told you before, I have a beautiful wife and daughter I am very much looking forward to seeing again. Perhaps love is stronger than death? Hmmm?” He coughed, spitting up blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Or does a radical or extremist or whatever you choose to label me not feel love? I believe that is what you Americans would like to believe. What was it your greatest of writers said? ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?’” He paused meaningfully. “‘And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’”
“And if we shoot you,” Thunder said, “you’re supposed to bloody well die.”
Jahja leveled the gun at him. “Cute, Mr. Young. However, the time for talk is over. Set the sack in your hand down and open the door to the cabin. Wide.”
Thunder looked at Scarlett. She didn’t know what to tell him.
“She cannot help you, Mr. Young,” Jahja said. “Do as I say. I do not have much patience right now.”
Thunder dropped the fruit and pulled the door open.
“Very good. Now untie that rope supporting the hammock. Don’t get any ideas. If I see you make any move for a weapon, I will shoot you both.”
Thunder entered the cabin and untied the knot attached to the canvas hammock. The end closest to him dropped to the floor. He undid the anchor point secured to the rafters, then came back outside, carrying the six-foot-long piece of braided rope.
“Thank you,” Jahja said. “Now throw it to me.”
Thunder did what was asked of him. Jahja caught the rope with his free hand. He lowered the rifle, took a knife from his belt, and began to cut the rope into thirds. Scarlett saw the window of opportunity and thought about rushing him. But sh
e was one hundred twenty pounds, maybe one twenty-three with her clothes on and wet as they were, and she couldn’t see herself doing much damage. Not to mention he was still a good fifteen feet away—more than enough time for him to raise the rifle and blow her guts out across the deck. He finished up and lobbed one section to her.
“Now would you be so kind as to tie Mr. Young’s wrists behind his back?” Jahja told her. “Tightly. I will be checking your handiwork.”
Scarlett’s mind raced for another option, but there weren’t many when you had a gun trained on you. She reluctantly tied Thunder’s wrists behind his back.
Jahja came over, gave the knot she’d made a solid tug, and smiled. “Very good, Miss Cox. Now turn around yourself.”
She did as she was told and felt the rope loop around her wrists three times before biting painfully into her skin. “Why are you doing this?” she said. “Everybody is dead. It’s over.”
“It’s far from over, Miss Cox. Do you think Al Qaeda’s plans or resolve have changed just because we have lost a few men? We have thousands more lining up to die as true mujahedin on Allah’s path.”
“What are you going to do with us?”
“I think you know the answer to that…” He trailed off, breaking into his worst fit of coughing yet. He wiped his bloody lips with the back of his hand, wiped his hand on his tunic. He marched them down the stairs to the main deck, where he opened the door to the cabin and ordered them inside.
“Listen, mate,” Thunder said. “Take the boat, but let us go. That helicopter that crashed into the church was our ride. When it doesn’t report back tonight, more reinforcements are going to be sent out. They’ll be here tomorrow. They’ll find us.”
Jahja shook his head. “You underestimate the size of the Congo, Mr. Young. There are literally hundreds of tributaries off this river alone. If we go farther downriver, we’ll reach the Lualaba, the greatest headstream of the Congo River, which itself is the second longest river in Africa, after the Nile.” He smiled humorlessly. “So you see, there are plenty of places to go. No one is going to find us. I can assure you of that.”