The Watchers

by Mark Andrew Olsen

  “Coming for me?” said Dylan, scanning the treetops behind her.

  “Yes. He is our enemy. Your enemy, if I read things correctly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Lord just showed him to me. A soldier all alone, floating down the river toward us. Very experienced. Very capable. And filled with hate. Most of it for you.”

  The truth burst on Dylan with an almost visible reaction. “Shadow Leader,” he said.

  “Is that the leader of the Scythe?”

  “One of them, I think. I don’t know much about the Brotherhood, but I believe he is very near the top of its hierarchy.”

  “And do you have a relationship, a history with this man?”

  Dylan shook his head in bewilderment. “I thought I did, but apparently the position is handed down from one operational manager to the other. The Shadow Leader of five years ago was a former army officer who was my superior for much of my military career. He was one of my best friends. Saved my life once, in Grenada. The one who recruited me into extra-governmental work. But he . . . well, I don’t know what happened to him. I didn’t even realize he’d been replaced until another of their operatives told me. His voice had been synthesized, I think, to sound like the man I knew. You see, after a certain point, we only spoke by phone.”

  “He is very angry with you,” Okoye added. “In fact, he is coming down here as much out of a thirst for revenge as a desire to complete his mission.”

  “That’s all right,” said Dylan. “We can handle him.”

  “No, we can’t, remember—?” Okoye insisted.

  “You’re not listening to me,” interrupted Dylan with an indulgent grin. “By we, I didn’t mean we three. At least not the three of us, alone.” He took both her hands in his. “Don’t worry, my Sister. I understand now.”

  Sister Okoye gave him a relieved smile. “Did I tell you what most authorities, even the archaeologists, believe was the primary purpose of the Eredo Rampart?”

  “A military barrier, I’m sure,” said Dylan.

  Okoye shook her head. “It was almost certainly a spiritual boundary. They’ve discovered countless clues pointing toward it being like a barricade on a demonic highway: Do not go any farther. In fact, even today superstitious locals hike in here and make offerings on the rampart to protect themselves against evil ones.”

  “You mean this jungle used to be full of demons?” asked Abby.

  “It seems that way. Or maybe a specific spirit war waged here. It’s possible that’s why the Iya Agba were brought here in the first place.”

  “So in a way,” Dylan said darkly, looking out again, “this is just another skirmish in a war that’s been fought here for a long, long time.”

  “You have no idea how long,” said Okoye, closing her eyes in a way that suggested she was quietly gathering strength. “In fact,” she continued, “neither do I.”

  They began their battle plan with a procedure that suited both the carnal and the spiritual warrior: a thorough circling of their surroundings. In this case, they were carrying out two utterly different objectives at once. First, cataloguing their position’s most useful features and lines of approach, and at the same time laying down an intense prayer-journey around its periphery.

  They walked as furtively as they could, mindful that their attacker could already be watching. Dylan had convinced the other two to proceed in a manner where, as two of them moved forward along the top of the wall, one would remain behind and closely watch for any sign of detection or telltale signs among the surrounding wildlife.

  After several minutes of this, they regrouped at an odd hump-shaped rise on the ridgeline. Despite the fact that she crouched just two feet from a seventy-foot drop, Sister Okoye sat with her eyes shut, her lips constantly moving.

  “What are you asking for?” Abby said in a soft, woman-to-woman tone of voice.

  “For direction,” Okoye replied without opening her eyes. “Simply direction from Him. For Him to move on our behalf. Lead us to His defenses, not ours.”

  Finally she opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on Dylan. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking our enemy will probably do his recon at nightfall, like most good special ops guys do,” he muttered. “If we can trick him into misidentifying our position, maybe with some kind of an improvised heat signature, then maybe if we stay very quiet in an offset ambush spot, we can fool him into going after it.”

  “This is where this new warfare goes into action,” said Okoye. “Be praying as you go that God will lead you to His place, and His solutions. No need to close your eyes or anything. Just say it inside as you go.”

  I feel weird, God, Dylan began silently, asking the Creator of the universe with help on something as down-to-earth as a place to hide. Or a plan of attack. But if you’re in the business of saving my sorry hide, then I guess I better ask you . . .

  They kept creeping along the wall’s summit. Nothing happened, and Dylan felt the cold gray world returning hard, and for a moment despaired of his new faith.

  “Look!” cried Abby, pointing.

  At the base of a wall of rocks, covered by new moss, lay the remains of a shrine. A small clay plate, the rotted clumps of some kind of food offering, and scratched-up icons—a cross and a few symbols Dylan vaguely recognized. And a half-burned candle.

  “There’s your heat signature. Would that work, Dylan?”

  He picked up the lumpy mass of old wax and turned it around in his hands. Nodding, he smiled at Abby. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “And look here.” Sister Okoye was pointing just above the shrine, at a spot on the rock face.

  Her discovery was a group of ancient-looking drawings, finely etched into the wall’s surface. Most of the symbols were representational: a crocodile, a rain cloud, two beasts that reminded Abby of American pronghorn antelope. Then an eye. A strangely formed figure eight. A broad-hipped female form.

  Sister Okoye could not tear her gaze away from the sight. She stopped moving. Her breathing seemed suspended.

  “What is it?” asked Abby.

  “Well, several things. First of all, that eye is the symbol of the Iya Agba. There’s one in a corner of the cave we’ve been staying in. There’s another one marking the beginning of the steps up the rampart; that’s how I knew where to find it. I imagine they’re all over this place. But I’ve never seen one grouped with other images. Or even heard of it before.”

  “Is that woman a fertility figure?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Aren’t those usually pagan?”

  “Yes. The people around here mix everything together, often with tragic results. They don’t know any better.”

  “What about that number eight? Isn’t that weird? Isn’t that shape a modern, or at least a Western number?”

  Okoye frowned. “You’re right, Abby. I wonder if it’s supposed to be an eight at all.”

  “A coiled serpent?” offered the younger woman.

  “I surely hope not.”

  “Yes, but look at how the bottom loop of the eight is sort of curled sideways. And there’s a double shape inside. Another loop with a curled top. A baby serpent maybe?”

  “Is it a kernel of some kind?” asked Dylan.

  “Maybe,” conceded Okoye. “There’s definitely more to this shape than at first glance.”

  “Think of it according to the first principle,” Dylan said. “Marcus Aurelius—‘Of each particular thing, ask what is it in itself?’ ”

  “Well, if I take the bottom of the eight by itself, it looks . . .”

  “It looks like a flame.” Sister Okoye had said it, staring ever harder at the image. “A flame whose uppermost tip curls into some kind of a ring around itself.”

  “Fire,” said Dylan. “We have a flame, or a fire.”

  “A fire that’s crowned by—”

  “That’s it!” he interrupted. “A fire with a crown.”

  “A royal fire. A fire
of the kings.”

  “No,” Sister Okoye said, “not a crown. Look how perfectly rounded it is. No points, no indents. That’s no crown I’ve ever seen. But look how it’s centered right over the top of the flame in a circle.”

  “It’s a halo,” said Abby.

  “A holy fire,” said Dylan.

  Abby chuckled, thinking he was joking. Then, seeing his serious expression, she grew serious again.

  “This is the next clue we’ve been searching for,” said Okoye. “I can sense it. We’re close. So close.”

  “A holy fire?”

  “Yes, but look how close it is to the seeing-eye symbol. There are eyes all over this site, but all of them are alone. Nowhere near another carving. This is special. It’s referring to one of our Sisterhood who is near a holy fire. She must be someone special. An ordained member.”

  “Maybe it’s that matriarch you told me about,” said Abby. “The one everyone thinks is ailing.”

  Sister Okoye looked up at Abby with a sharp, affirmative glance. “I think you’re right. That could be it. God led us to the right clue.”

  “Really,” Dylan said, sounding doubtful.

  “Please don’t let yourself fall into the skeptical Western mindset, Dylan,” chided Okoye. “This is one of the biggest breaches between believers in the West and the rest of the world. And one of the Western church’s biggest limitations. I told you that many Western Christians put the reality of the spiritual realm out of their minds. But here in Africa, we can hardly avoid it. It’s always been right there on the surface, a part of everyday life. We’ve had witch doctors and shamanic occult and evil manifestations as long as we’ve had people. As a result, we’ve never been tempted to water down or explain away the powerful encounters between the armies of God and those of the devil.”

  “Maybe this is one of the reasons why, when our sisters were kidnapped to America,” Abby interjected, “their impact never influenced American culture beyond the African-American community itself. Even to this day. Our Western mindset just wasn’t ready to accept it.”

  “So where does all this leave us?” asked Dylan.

  “Find a Holy Fire, and you’ll find the source you seek,” Okoye replied.

  “You mean this woman you all think is the leader?”

  “Yes, Dylan, and more. She will have the answers to all this mystery.”

  “So we’re going to Ethiopia.”

  “You’re going to Ethiopia. But yes, that is where the trail ends.”

  “We can’t go there straightaway,” added Dylan. “First we’ll have to get to London where I have my European cache.”

  “Cache?” said Abby.

  “All operatives like me have places around the globe where they can access money from a secret account and resources like new identity papers. I have one in L.A., one in Caracas, and one in London.”

  “Yes, but how do we get there? We don’t even have papers to get out of Nigeria.”

  “I have no idea,” he grunted. “One miracle at a time, princess.”

  “And He will give you one,” said Okoye. “Do you see, Dylan, how just now He led us to both an answer to our mystery and a solution for your defenses?”

  “I do,” he said. “Pretty amazing.”

  “So you see, I wasn’t trying to keep you from making earthly preparations. I just wanted for God to guide you into the ones He had for us. They tend to be far more powerful.”

  “Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” said Dylan with an uncomfortable grin, “let’s work on staying alive until we can get there. We’re a long way from Ethiopia. And a long way from safe.” He stood, holding the candle in his hand. “Besides, I have an idea. But we have to move fast.”

  CHAPTER

  _ 45

  Over the miles, the initial embers of Shadow Leader’s resolve had stoked themselves into a virtual bonfire of revenge. Deprived of its true target, his hatred had fed, feasted actually, on his most primal companions—the solitude of the jungle, the thumping of his heart, the glide along a liquid highway, the silent flow of time.

  Anything. Any stimulus at all.

  When he finally arrived at the landing—which was no longer a shore but a mere left turn into deeper swamps—he felt himself rejuvenated into the deliciously unstoppable killing machine of his younger days. An unthinking force of nature.

  Rejuvenated? he said to himself. Forget that. I’m reborn.

  Nothing would stop him but nature itself—he could sense it within him. He hadn’t felt this exhilarated in years.

  He saw the rampart from the satellite photographs loom above a razor-thin layer of mist. Adrenaline seethed through every muscle in his body. He vowed to himself to line those three freaks’ decapitated heads on top of that very ridge, then snap a photo of the sight and uplink it to the screen of every old fossil sitting in a rocking chair somewhere, deliberating his fate.

  That would show ’em.

  He pulled out his map, scrutinized its tracing of the rampart’s path through the rain forest, and looked up at the real thing. There’d be a lot of ground to cover, and he wasn’t going to wait for nightfall to start. He ripped an armful of reeds and vines from the jungle around him and spent twenty minutes fitting an intricate camouflage across the far lip of the Kodiak. Perfect. Now he was not only exquisitely disguised by color, but transformed into little more than a drifting clump of jungle flora. One of millions in the area, from the look of things.

  Even his infrared goggles were painted camouflage, he noted as he strapped them on. He willed himself into invisibility. Resuming his stomach-down pose in the boat, he untied his tether and started the motor. He steered the disguised craft between his outstretched feet behind him and began to slide ever so slowly through the jungle’s edge, just inside the canopy and the overfilled moats.

  His nose crinkled under the assault of a foul smell. But just as quickly, recognizing its source, Shadow Leader broke into a savage grin. The flood had just offered him its first gift.

  Swamp gas. Methane.

  The sun fell, the moon rose, and an unlikely hush fell over the brooding heights of the Eredo Rampart. At the opening of their chamber, Dylan knelt, poised to set in place the last of his countermeasures. The half-guttered candle taken from the wall shrine now sat below him, ready to be lit and become their perfect lure: a self-perpetuating heat and light source. Just enough to seemingly betray a low level of human activity.

  After fighting with a buried wick in the dim light, he managed to light the flame, then turned to the two women.

  “I’ve put off saying this until the very end,” he said, “but I think one of you will need to stay here with the candle. Not only to make sure it keeps burning, but to set the trap. He’ll acquire a thermal signature from a long ways off. But once he gets within any kind of sight line, he’ll want to see an actual person or he may sniff a trap and bolt.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Sister Okoye. “I am not as mobile as you two. It is the perfect task for me.”

  “Yes, but it’s the most dangerous,” Abby protested.

  “Exactly, my dear. After all, I am fairly old, even if you cannot guess exactly how old I am. I have led a full life.”

  Abby winced at the implications of Okoye’s statement, but then let it go.

  Dylan resumed his briefing. “If he’s following special ops strategy, he’ll strike fast and hard. The idea is to wrap everything up within thirty seconds. Granted, that’s usually when you attack with a full squad. But I still expect things to happen quickly. Sister, just in case he considers sniping, stay just inside the entrance but no farther. Don’t give him a target. If he climbs up, which I think he will, duck out of the way or you could get hit. I’ll be just above you with the gun. If you see me wave, then slide away and get out of there fast, because it means I completely misread him and he decided to open up with explosives. But if he’s on a personal vendetta to take me down, then he’ll come up in person. Besides, he wants to kill Abby with his
own hands.”

  Abby’s face blanched.

  “Sorry, Abby,” he mumbled. “Now we should get into positions. If nothing happens by dawn, we just regroup here. Do so carefully in case it’s a trap. But if your Sight was correct, he’ll use the night. Oh, and one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” asked Abby nervously, as if she could hardly bear one more of these nerve-racking disclosures.

  “I suppose we should pray?”

  They were holding hands above the rampart, each of them moving their lips in silence, when a loud but breathy thump filled their ears. Dylan’s head shot up, his eyes sharp as knives, but out of deference to the others, he waited one second.

  Two.

  Three. He groaned inwardly. Please, Sister, finish the prayer. . . .

  Finally out of patience, he dropped both hands and scrambled to the far edge.

  The moat’s waterline was on fire with an eerie blue flame. A foul smoke curled up toward them on a light breeze.

  “Swamp gas,” whispered Sister Okoye behind him. “He’s using every advantage.”

  “He’s good,” agreed Dylan, nodding. “He’ll use the smoke as his cover when he scales the wall. Let’s get into position.”

  Shadow Leader had identified the distant heat signature over an hour before, then spent the bulk of that time approaching carefully for a better look. Surely, they wouldn’t make it that simple, he warned himself. Then he remembered that the fools probably considered themselves undetected and had no notion of his coming.

  Sure enough, as he approached in the twilight he’d seen the tops of one or two heads moving around, seemingly unconcerned. He had smiled, feeling a slight twinge of disappointment at the ease of it all. No matter, he had consoled himself, for he’d indulge himself in a full tactical approach anyhow.

  Which was exactly what he was doing.

  CHAPTER

  _ 46

  At the sight of the smoke—an unexpected tactic—Dylan felt the full weight of his old operational mindset come crashing back into his thoughts.