Firestorm

by Rachel Grant

  He braced himself for the unknown. They could turn into a battalion of Lubanga’s men here. Or no one.

  If the entrance under the palace wasn’t guarded, what did that mean for this end, well over eight miles south? But the men who’d come after them had been on the tracks, not in the palace tunnels.

  “Grab my gun,” he said to Freya, knowing she hadn’t had a chance to reload her weapon. He’d keep his hands on the throttle and brake and let her do the shooting.

  She pulled his weapon. Her knees tightened on his hips as she adjusted to a one-handed hold on his hip.

  He leaned into the turn, hoping the headlight would blind anyone in wait around the bend, but it was possible no one at this end of the tunnel knew they were coming. He’d snapped the guy’s neck when they fought in the tunnel, and Freya’s shot had been deadly, leaving, as far as they knew, only the unconscious bound man in the computer room alive to warn others.

  Maybe they were home free.

  The report of a bullet killed that fantasy. It was impossible to gauge where it came from given the echo down the chamber, but Freya must still be wearing her NVGs with heat sensor, because she fired into the darkness just as the headlight illuminated a man crouched in an alcove.

  The man’s head snapped back, and he dropped as they zipped past. Cal took the next curve at speed and swerved to miss several heavy mine carts lined up on the track, blocking their way.

  Freya rolled from the back of the bike as it fishtailed. He turned a hundred and eighty degrees to see her fire off two shots, taking out two men with AKs who’d likely been blinded by the headlight. They’d fired, one bullet zipping past Cal’s head alarmingly close.

  A third man was in the path of the bike, beside the tracks. Cal did his own roll, pulling his knife as he pitched the bike into him. A moment later, he had the man pinned under the bike, his blade to his throat.

  “Who do you work for?” he asked in French.

  The man spat in his face and dislodged the knife.

  Shit. He was gonna make Cal kill him.

  Fine.

  Cal punched the man in the face with his other hand. They rolled. They guy was thick and muscular, and he knew how to fight. Cal took a blow to the face as he kicked upward, dislodging his opponent.

  Cal rolled to his feet at the same time the other guy did. He charged Cal, and it was over with the man’s next heartbeat. Cal’s blade sank deep into his chest.

  Cal turned to Freya, breathing heavy, adrenaline pumping. She stood in profile to him, running her flashlight over an alcove.

  “Anyone there?” Cal asked.

  “No. But I found tools and…gas cans.” She lifted a jerry can and shook it. “Five of them. And they’re full.”

  Thank you, God.

  He lifted the bike and threw the kickstand. While he topped off the tank, she grabbed machetes, a hammer, a wrench, and a few screwdrivers from the tool cache and collected the AKs from all three men she’d shot.

  “Look at this,” she said, holding up the Kalashnikovs.

  They weren’t 47s. They were AKS74Us—short assault rifles. The short barrel and folding stock made them easier to conceal, while the distinctive open triangle stock made them lighter than other assault rifles. AKS74Us were rare, especially in Africa.

  “They might’ve been gifts from Gorev,” he said. Terrorist groups had coveted the Russian rifles ever since Osama bin Laden was photographed with one.

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “When this is over, we’ll send Gorev a thank-you note.” Things were looking up. They had a bike, fuel, concealable AKs, and a hell of a lot of money.

  He strapped two full jerry cans to the back of the bike, which had a platform just for that purpose. In a land where roads were narrow and unpaved or nonexistent, motorbikes were the most reliable, best transportation to be found, and this bike was tricked out for just this sort of journey.

  They had enough fuel to reach Lisala or Gemena and could figure out their next steps from there. He strapped his pack to the back along with the fuel cans, so it would be easier for Freya to ride without the bulk between them.

  He climbed on as she secured the machetes and folded AKs to their gear, then straddled the seat behind him, her thighs against his hips. They set off down the tracks again and rounded the curve to see a flatbed cart loaded with fifty-five-gallon steel drums blocking their path and what appeared to be a large metal bay door with train tracks running underneath.

  Over the engine noise, he could hear rain pounding against the metal door. They’d reached the exit.

  He skirted the cart and halted the bike by the crank that would roll up the door—no electricity required. Freya hopped off, but she didn’t go for the crank; instead, she headed for the cart they’d passed.

  He shut off the engine at her hand signal and dismounted.

  “I need the hammer,” she said, her gaze fixed on the drums.

  He plucked it from their gear and approached. “You want to see what’s inside?”

  “Yes. My guess is the men were delivering something when they heard the engine—or got a call from someone at the other end—and left this to take up positions in the tunnel to ambush us.”

  The trolley was motorized—which explained the stockpile of gas cans—and held three drums painted dark green. He used the claw end of the hammer to pry open the latch on the ring clamp of a barrel. She removed the ring and lifted the lid. He shone the light into the container, revealing a yellow powder.

  He recognized the contents as Freya said the name.

  “Uranium oxide concentrate. Also known as yellowcake.”

  23

  Freya stared into the drum, mind racing with the implications. Yellowcake. Goddamned uranium, ready for enrichment. “How would uranium get this far north? The Shinkolobwe mine is at the other end of the country. Uranium smuggling goes through Zambia.”

  Shinkolobwe was the country’s most notable uranium mine, having provided the fuel for the Manhattan Project, and to the best of her knowledge, all of Congo’s uranium deposits were in the south.

  “It’s at least a thousand miles from here,” Cal said.

  And these were Congo miles, which were like dog years. It was a long, difficult way to smuggle goods.

  “Maybe security into Zambia has improved. It appears this is Lubanga’s operational center. And it has an unregulated airport along with a tunnel into the Central African Republic. With a cargo plane, it would be a snap.”

  Had a second plane arrived while they were in the tunnel? The earlier plane had come from Dar es Salaam, not southern DRC.

  Freya replaced the lid. By some accounts, yellowcake wasn’t yet significantly radioactive—that happened later, with enrichment. But breathing it in could be deadly.

  Sweat dripped down her cheek. The thick, warm air of the tunnel became overbearing when not riding on the back of a moving bike. They needed to get out of here. They had no idea if reinforcements would be found in the road ahead or come at them from the tunnel behind.

  “No one moves yellowcake like this for a legit nuclear power plant,” Cal said. “If they were doing that, they’d sell it in Zambia along with the other artisanal miners.”

  She nodded. The uranium was destined for a terrorist group or enemy state. ISIS. Syria. Al Qaeda. Boko Haram. Al-Shabaab. There were too many options, all of them terrifying. They couldn’t take it with them, and they couldn’t leave it here.

  “Let’s reseal the barrel, roll the cart out of here, and toss them into the jungle. They’ll be recovered, but at least we’ll make them work for it.”

  She nodded. It was also the only thing they had time for, given that men could be coming after them down the tunnel even now.

  He placed the clamp ring around the rim.

  “Wait!” she said, as an idea popped into her head. “I have trackers.”

  Cal lifted the ring. “The kind you can plant on objects and they transmit the location via GPS?”

 
“Yes. They’re small and transmit location information via satellite. They’re monitored with a URL.”

  “How long does the battery last?”

  “If I set it to only transmit every twelve hours, about ten days.”

  “You want to drop one in this barrel, so the CIA can track it?”

  “Yes.” She pulled off her pack and dug in the concealed pocket, then pulled out a tracker the size and shape of a thick American nickel. It was covered in a pale, reflective plastic that would blend with the yellow powder. She set it to transmit twice a day and activated it.

  “Give it to me,” Cal said. She looked up to see he’d tied a T-shirt around his mouth and nose. In one hand, he held a long metal rod he must’ve grabbed from the tunnel debris.

  She was strangely touched by this protective gesture, even as she wanted to argue this was her risk to take. But they didn’t have time for arguing, so she handed him the disk.

  He lifted the lid, keeping his face averted from the open drum, and dropped the disk inside. He used the metal rod to push it deeper into the barrel, then slowly extracted the rod so as not to stir the powder and cause it to form a cloud of toxic dust.

  Once the rod was clear, he dropped the lid back in place. Freya secured the clamp ring while he set the rod by the wall and doffed the shirt that covered his face, leaving it with the rod.

  He returned to her side. “I’ll get the cart running. You open the bay door.”

  The crank was well oiled, but the door was heavy, and she was sweating by the time she got it high enough for the cart and bike to pass through.

  Outside, it wasn’t just a rainstorm, it was a deluge. Cal drove the cart and she moved the bike outside and closed the door again. The jungle hugged the tracks, but the rails were clear for the seeable distance, making her wonder how far the line went.

  “Let’s keep going. Look for a place where we can roll these down a slope. May as well make it hard for them,” Cal shouted over the pounding rain.

  She nodded. They’d be less likely to suspect a tracker had been planted if they had to work to find the drums.

  She followed him on the bike while he operated the cart. About a mile down the tracks the ground to the right began to slope, even as the jungle seemed to grow thicker. Finally Cal brought the flatbed cart to a stop.

  She climbed off the bike as he pitched the first barrel off the cart. It rolled and was quickly swallowed by the thick vegetation. Freya pitched the next one, which followed the first into the bush. Cal dumped the third, then restarted the cart, and sent it on autopilot down the rails.

  Freya climbed onto the hillside, collecting broadleaves to cover the flattened trail the drums had left. Between the thick vegetation and the heavy rain, hiding three fifty-five-gallon barrels of uranium oxide concentrate was surprisingly easy.

  She turned her face to the sky. She was certain she hadn’t gotten any of the toxic powder on her, but still, she was glad for the cleansing rain.

  Morgan had complained about dealing with venomous snakes when she did fieldwork. Freya looked forward to one-upping her with this story.

  Cal pulled out his military-grade GPS unit. “I’m saving the coordinates.” She stepped up beside him as he studied the map, then tucked the unit away. “We’ll follow the tracks for another mile or two—if they’re passable. Then we’ll cut through the jungle and enter the rainforest. It’s the best way to lose any pursuers.”

  She nodded and climbed on the back of the bike. He paused before her, slipped a hand behind her head, and kissed her hard. Full, openmouthed, carnal.

  Rain poured over them. Thunder roared in the distance. Lightning flashed, and she kissed him back. The kiss wasted a precious five seconds, but it was worth it.

  He released her, flashed a grin, and, without a word, mounted the bike in front of her. She gripped his hips as they set off into the darkness, following train tracks in a narrow channel that cut through the broadleaf forest.

  They quickly caught up to and passed the flatbed cart. Gradually the jungle thickened, encroaching right up to the tracks. They were under full canopy, hiding the tracks from satellites. The need for machetes even when following the tracks was readily apparent. The bike could maneuver, but the unmanned cart would eventually get tangled.

  Freya looked up to the canopy. Rain filtered through the leaves, splattering her skin. It couldn’t wipe away the dark greasepaint that coated her face, but in her mind, the deluge cleansed her. Nature’s baptismal, washing away uranium and blood, smoke and gasoline.

  They’d struck a blow against Lubanga. They might be able to track the yellowcake. And tucked away in her pack, she carried three hundred and fifty million dollars of Bratva money.

  Not bad for one night’s reconnaissance mission.

  She tightened her grip on Cal’s hips and placed her cheek on his back, closing her eyes, thankful that he had the hard job of navigating the bike down the overgrown path. She was eternally grateful he was with her, helping her fight for this vast, strange, wild, and wonderful country.

  They left the rail line as soon as Cal spotted an opening in the thick vegetation. It was slow going, and several times, they had to backtrack when their route proved impassable, but finally, they broke through and reached mature tropical broadleaf forest, where the canopy was so thick, the forest floor was clear of undergrowth.

  Cal had visited equatorial rainforests with his mother when she took him to her childhood village east of Kinshasa. This forest was much the same, with tall, broadleaf evergreens supported by triangular buttresses—aboveground roots that were broad and flat, which were necessary for trees to thrive in this environment. Thick, woody vines draped from the trees, connecting one to the other. These lianas started from small shrubs on the floor and sent out tendrils to nearby saplings. Both grew upward together, forming the rainforest canopy that protected Freya and him from the heavy rainstorm above.

  A vast array of fauna inhabited these woods, and he wouldn’t be surprised to come across a poisonous snake or an okapi—a strangely beautiful beast also known as a zebra giraffe. In the understory—the layer between floor and canopy—they might find leopards along with hundreds of species of birds, insects, and reptiles.

  Here, all beasts had free rein, but were likely warded off by the noise of the bike as he and Freya rode south, making good time in the dark now that the floor was clear of undergrowth.

  The quality of the light changed, telling him that above the canopy, dawn had broken. Only two percent of sunlight reached the floor in rainforests such as this, which explained why villages were found outside the forest with only rare indigenous people—in this area known as the Twa—having permanent settlements.

  Twa people spoke Bantu languages, of which Lingala was one. If they found themselves stuck and needing help, he might be able to communicate with them.

  Midmorning, he stopped the bike; he needed a break and assumed she did too. They’d been riding for hours and had hacked their way through a jungle to get here. They’d put so many rough, twisted miles between themselves and the tunnel, it would take a miracle for anyone to track them this far, this quickly. They could take thirty minutes without fear.

  He relieved his bladder, then changed into clothes that would look more normal for extremely foolish tourists exploring the rainforest without a guide. He tucked the AKs into a spare bag he’d carried in his pack to conceal them, and strapped the bag to the back with the jerry cans.

  When they reached a city or town, he didn’t want to raise questions by arriving in ninja suits with assault rifles flapping in the wind.

  Freya did the same, donning lightweight hiking pants and a button-down shirt of the same moisture-wicking fabric. Not that it would help in the sultry rainforest. It was hard to tell if the moisture in the air was from rain or if it was just normal humidity. The canopy blocked rainfall as much as it did sunlight.

  After changing, Freya used facial wipes to remove the dark greasepaint from her face. He helped by check
ing for streaks that wouldn’t pass for dirt smudges. He took the wipe from her hand and cleaned the edges, then leaned down and dropped a lingering kiss on her lips. He lifted his head and could just see her smile in the dim light.

  He couldn’t help himself and slipped a hand behind her neck and kissed her again, this time going deeper, possessing her mouth. Taking what she gave and demanding more.

  She replied with mouth and tongue, offering him everything. All of her. Which was exactly what he wanted. He acted without thought, letting his primal instincts run free. He was hopped up on adrenaline and the smell of her skin, the feel of her body against his.

  He scooped her up and pressed her back against a flat buttress root that was more wall than tree. He felt her ankles come together as she encircled his hips and ass with her legs. His erection rubbed against her center, and they both groaned as their tongues met and stroked with equal urgency.

  He should put on the brakes. They needed to talk and plan. But right now, he just wanted to possess her. To take the fiery energy of escaping death more than once the previous night and screw her against a tree in the sultry rainforest.

  Her hands at his fly said she was game. He pulled back, giving her access, and she freed his cock. She stroked him from base to tip, and he shut his eyes.

  Holy shit, that felt good.

  The moment was extra vibrant. Turned up to eleven. The air was thick, fragrant with earth and the sweet scent of a flowering vine in bloom. And Freya was hot and sultry, stroking him to insanity.

  He released her, setting her on the ground just long enough to whisk her underwear and pants down her legs and over her lightweight athletic shoes. He tossed the items over a draping vine, then lifted her again. He hesitated for the barest fraction of a second, his eyes on hers in the dim forest light, then he penetrated her, sliding deep with one stroke as her legs again closed around his hips.

  This no-condom thing was pretty damn awesome. She was pretty damn awesome.