Lioness

by Nell Brien

  An assortment of battered trucks—pickups, vans, panel trucks, matatus—ground over the white-rock road, past the farm buildings. Innocent business names, untraceable and bogus, decorated the door panels: Singh Bros. Electricals; Nairobi Sweet Spice Co.; Victoria Falls Carpet Co. Headlights blazed. After the first round had been fired from the barn, Reitholder had abandoned all attempts at stealth and gave the order to switch them on.

  The operation had started with bad luck. The Thika Coffee and Tea Co. van drove into the barn’s lot, the driver scratching his head in puzzlement, rolling down the window to ask directions to the main house. Instead of exchanging pleasantries, a bit of gossip, giving the men in the back a chance to slip out, garrotes in hand, Campbell’s Maasai had opened fire, killing the driver and the men in the back before retreating inside the barn.

  Men he needed for loading ivory. And now he had one fucking truck out of commission.

  The night’s work was not going to be easy.

  Ignoring the firefight around them, Reitholder kept the trucks moving into the barn clearing. Now that they’d lost the element of surprise, there was only one way into that barn.

  “Moshi!” he shouted to his boss kaffir. “Take over here. Keep them moving, get them under as much cover as you can. But keep them away from the barn doors, we can’t afford to lose any more of them.”

  General Francis ran across the clearing. “Colonel, get the trucks closer,” he shouted. “They don’t have a field of fire from inside. Their reinforcements won’t chance blasting the trucks if they’re close to the building—”

  “What reinforcements? You said no one would be up here—”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “We’re going to take that building from the roof, man,” Reitholder shouted. “You’re going to have a chance to use one of those toys we bought you. Make a nice big hole.”

  “Colonel, that’s foolhardy—”

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Reitholder shouted. “That barn’s tighter than a virgin’s arsehole. We can’t blast those doors open without blowing the fucking ivory to kingdom come. Get your man in position. Aim at the ridge line. Be sure nothing gets inside to blow the tusks.”

  General Francis hesitated. Reitholder grabbed him. The operation had been planned down to the last minute. Surprise the Maasai, cut the lines, overpower the guards at the barn, load the trucks, get out before anyone at the house knew they’d been there, disperse, make their way singly to the collection point in Mombasa. Several trucks carried extra gasoline to enable them to take circuitous routes.

  Plan B had been to blast their way in.

  Francis nodded, ran back down the line of trucks to give the order.

  Cat stumbled through the trees. She was alone, Stephen gone, Tom and Campbell lost in the smoke. Someone grabbed her, pulled her to the ground. She brought up the AK, struggling to turn to face her assailant.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Campbell pushed the barrel of her AK away from him. “Why didn’t you stay where you were, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m just trying to keep up,” she hissed. “What are you going to do?”

  Beyond Campbell, Tom crouched against a boulder, Stephen beside him. Other men, four or five, knelt among the rocks. They didn’t look at her, their eyes locked on the barn. They were on the far side of the building from where she’d been earlier that night.

  “We are going to take Reitholder and this bloody general alive, and hope the rest will run,” Campbell said. “It’s our best shot. We don’t have enough men to take them all. Jock is coming up on the other side with Zama and his men.” He pulled her toward him, his arms close. “If you don’t stay down, you could get caught in the crossfire. You understand? You must stay here, in this spot so that we know where you are. I can’t protect you—”

  “I don’t need you to protect me. No one has to protect me.”

  Tom nudged Campbell’s arm. From beyond the barn, a flare burst skyward, throwing a brief, eerie artificial daylight over the scene.

  “Tom.” Campbell pointed. “Simba Heavy Equipment. Dead center. Tell Aaron and his men to cover us. Kill anything that moves in those trucks. We’ll make as much noise as we can when we break. The bastards have to think we’re an army.”

  Tom turned to the men behind him, spoke in Swahili. They got to their feet.

  “Jock’s in position. Tom and I are going after the white lorry. Stay here.” Campbell turned Cat’s face toward him, put his lips against hers. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Cat heard the words through the noise of weapon fire. He loved her? Yesterday it would have meant everything. Now they were just words he used.

  “Go!” Campbell yelled.

  Howling like the hounds from hell, men burst from the trees. In the harsh light of the flare, panic stained the faces of Reitholder’s men turning to meet them. Campbell and Tom raced across the open ground, firing at the heavy truck.

  Then a force of energy surged through the air, sucking breath from fragile human lungs. Trees tossed like maddened mops as an explosion rocked the landscape and flames shot into the night sky. Evil-smelling smoke rolled through the woodland. The truck disintegrated. Flaming figures staggered through the metal frame of what had been the rear doors, threw themselves down, rolled frantically in the dust. Their screams escalated into high, thin, inhuman shrieks.

  The small judas gate in the doors of the barn slammed open. A burst of fire sprayed over the jerking bodies, mercifully silencing them.

  Reitholder ran forward, AK spitting. “It’s open,” he shouted. “Take the fucking door. It’s open—”

  Firing a fusillade to rip open the wide blank doors, half a dozen of his men charged toward the barn, into a storm of answering fire from more of Campbell’s people, hidden low against the wall of the building, waiting for them. Men dropped, screaming.

  “Come on,” Reitholder shouted. His kaffirs were breaking. The bastards were turning back. “Come on. Take it.” But he was alone, the survivors crawling toward the cover of the trucks waiting on the perimeter of the clearing.

  He tore after them, grabbed an arm to drag a bleeding man upright. “Get on your feet,” he yelled in Swahili. “There’s enough ivory in there to make you rich. We’ll take it from the roof. Get ready.”

  A few men, five, six, came forward, the rest, hunched between the trucks, stayed where they were. Reitholder stared around him. Where the fuck was that black bastard Moshi?

  The operation had turned into chaos. Gunfire came from every direction. From inside the barn. From reinforcements outside. From the north and south. It had turned into a rout. Where was Francis? The fucking kaffirs had lost their balls. Only Francis’s men, politicals, would do it now. Fanatics, all of them.

  Half a football field away, Tom pointed at the running, yellow-haired figure. Campbell nodded and yelled, “I’ll take him. Find Francis.”

  Tom veered off at a run. Campbell raced along the edge of the trees, firing short bursts to prevent Reitholder from crossing the line of trucks. If he got into the trees, he could slip away. The urge to kill him throbbed in Campbell’s veins like a fever. It took all he had to aim low, not to blow the bastard to kingdom come. Then Reitholder changed direction and was lost behind the corner of the building.

  Adrenaline pumped through General Francis’s veins. Not fear. Never that. As usual in action, he felt only the rightness of his mission. The stink of burning fuel was sweet in his nostrils, the screams of men, the explosions, the chatter of bullets, all were the music of revolution. Tonight was a minor skirmish.

  Francis tapped the shoulder of the man kneeling beside him. The man steadied the rocket launcher on his shoulder.

  The smell of charred flesh and burning fuel filled Cat’s nostrils. An explosion knocked her to the earth. Then another. Minutes passed before she was able to force her way through the thick underbrush to the edge of the treeline.

  Sixty feet away, a tall, slim camouflaged-cla
d figure was framed by the flames of a burning truck, his voice inaudible above the roar of gunfire, the crackle of flames. He ran a hand through a mane of iron-gray hair in a familiar gesture, then turned. She saw his face, the Roman collar beneath his battle fatigues. Dazed, almost disembodied with shock, she sat back on her heels, muscles slack, uncontrollable tremors shaking her body.

  Father Gaston raised a hand, the white cylinder of a cigarette plain between his fingers. In a sharp motion, he brought the hand down. Another edge of the roof fragmented and he nodded, patted the shoulder of the skinny man kneeling beside him, the rocket launcher on his shoulder.

  Isaac. The gardener. The beggar.

  Campbell broke from the trees, charged after Reitholder, through the line of trucks, across the open yard. A rain of bullets followed him. Zigzagging, jumping the bodies littering the clearing, he reached the cover of the barn, crouched against the wall, searching for the Afrikaner through the smoke. Then above his head, the corner roofline of the building fragmented, debris exploding like giant, deadly hailstones. He ducked. Splintered wood thudded into his back. He leaned against the building, trying to pinpoint the source of the attack. He caught a glimpse of Tom, Aaron at his heels, racing toward the sound, east of the building. He could see Tom’s open mouth, knew he was roaring threats, knew, too, they could take care of it. His job was Reitholder. Another blast shook the structure, and beams hurtled through the air like matchsticks.

  A strange metallic taste was in her mouth. Joel had told her nothing was as it seemed. Why hadn’t she understood? Nothing was as it seemed. Numbness gave way. The tremors subsided into relentless shivering. Another rocket smashed into the roof. Father Gaston was blasting his way into the barn.

  Cat looked at the AK in her hand.

  Reitholder wanted to scream. Smash. Kill. It was over. Gunfire swept the clearing, scythed through the men, turned trucks into torches. Only one thing was left. He charged toward a truck with an extra petrol tank and found Moshi behind the wheel.

  “Get out,” he screamed. “Get out of there.” He pulled open the door, dragged the skinny body out. “Fire the fucking barn.”

  Moshi stared at him, terrified. Reitholder struck him across the mouth. “You hear me, you black bastard. Fire the fucking barn. Burn the ivory.”

  Moshi raised his Uzi, smashed the butt against Reitholder’s shoulder. Pain shot through his arm, his weapon dropped from numbed fingers. Screaming in an incoherent mixture of Afrikaans, Swahili, English, Reitholder lunged forward to grab the black throat. He could smell the blood he wanted.

  Moshi raised his Uzi, finger curled around the trigger. He hesitated, then he smashed Reitholder’s shoulder again. He stepped back, turned, faded like smoke into the trees.

  Reitholder hurled himself behind the wheel of the truck, slammed into gear, wrenched at the wheel, shoved his foot down. The truck gathered speed, roaring toward the barn. He jumped before impact, rolled to his feet in a run. The truck smashed through the double doors of the barn. Walls bulged as gas tanks exploded. The roof lifted. Fire grabbed the wood, roared through the building.

  She’d jumped straight into the arms of the devil, Cat realized, taken in by lies wrapped in the trappings of a cassock, a Roman collar, kind words about Joel.

  A long, brutal, eardrum-shattering burst of gunfire erupted, then stopped. For a moment she thought silence had been restored, then shouts and gunfire began to penetrate the echoing emptiness in her head.

  Gagging on great sobbing gulps of the foul air, Cat pressed her face into the earth. Then she scrambled to her feet, jerked the safety off the AK and crashed through the brush.

  Almost dizzy with relief, she saw Tom M’Bala swing his AK toward her.

  “It’s me,” she shouted. “Cat.”

  Tom turned the weapon back to cover Gaston kneeling in front of him. The rocket man, gardener, beggar was spread-eagled, his life’s blood spurting in great arcs from the bullet wound in his neck.

  “At least let me tend to him,” Gaston shouted. He reached toward the dying man.

  Tom shoved him back with the AK. The gardener’s legs drummed convulsively in his death spasm. Gradually the drumming lessened, then ceased. Lips moving in prayer, Gaston made the sign of the cross in the direction of the body.

  In a crouch, Stephen N’toya ran across the smoke-filled clearing. Exultant, he yelled, “Where’s Reitholder? Don’t let him get away!”

  “Dan’s after him,” Tom shouted. “He can’t get away. Jock’s at the road with Zama.” A spray of bullets cut through his words. With a shriek of splintering wood, the tops of trees crashed to the ground, air whining through falling branches. “Get back,” he yelled to Cat. “It’s not over.”

  Still kneeling, Gaston twisted, looking behind him to stare into her face. “Mademoiselle.” He nodded as if they were meeting for tea at his church in Nairobi. Then he shrugged in his curiously Gallic way, managing to encompass the burning van lighting up the half-wrecked barn, the running men, the bullet-riddled trucks careening toward the narrow roadway. “This is a dangerous place you find yourself in. Do as our friend here asks.”

  “You never knew Joel, did you?”

  Gaston shook his head.

  “Then why the playacting?”

  “My regrets. We did not know what he had told you about the camp in the hills. He thought no one knew that he had been there. But we knew. As our friend here knows, our ears and eyes are everywhere. As it turned out, it did not matter.” He shrugged again. “The camp was attacked.”

  “Nyamaza!” Tom’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  N’toya jumped forward, jamming his own AK against Gaston’s ear. “Get after Reitholder,” he said urgently to Tom. “I’ll take over here.”

  “If he moves, shoot him,” Tom shouted. He raced toward a Toyota pickup careening in the direction of the roadway, fired directly into the windshield. The vehicle veered off, crashing into the side of the barn. The screech of a stuck horn added to the din.

  An explosion rocked the south side of the barn. Flames shot into the air, crept along the line of the roof, eating at the wood, consuming the structure and its contents.

  “Well, all for nothing, I see,” Francis said. He laughed. From beneath half-lidded eyes, he studied N’toya. There had to be a way to turn this situation around. It was useless to waste regrets on the lost ivory. Elephants were still out there, younger, their tusks smaller, but still useful. Until the last of them were gone, the great beasts would continue to be what they always had been—the resource that drove the engines of war in Africa. Cash for recruitment, training, arms. The need was as acute as it had been since he’d heard the call of Marxism as a young activist priest in the Congo.

  Testing the limit of N’toya’s resolve, Francis rose to his feet. He felt safe enough. He’d guess this man did not have the belly for a killing. He reached into his pocket.

  “Stop!”

  “A cigarette,” Gaston said calmly. “A last smoke is permitted?”

  “Get back on your—” N’toya did not finish the sentence. Gaston’s hand emerged from his pocket holding a tiny handgun. He raised it. N’toya fired a burst from the AK.

  Instinctively, Cat jumped backward, away from the bombardment of sound. Then her scream died, strangled by an arm tightening around her throat. She struggled to keep her feet. She could smell the sweat, the same foul breath she’d smelled before.

  She knew who it was.

  Thirty-Nine

  Campbell choked on searing black smoke that was thick with the stink of burning ivory.

  Screams rose from men falling in the deadly crossfire, caught between Jock and Zama at the road, Aaron on the north side of the barn, Moses and Sambeke, the rest of the Maasai outside the fired barn.

  He thought like the man he was hunting—and knew. Reitholder would make for the east, the only way open, then swing south through the cedar forest. And that way, he would stumble across the Land Rover. Even without it, in that direction lay the hou
se. Hostages. The wild slopes of Mount Kenya.

  Campbell started running across the open fire-filled clearing. The group of figures appeared through the flaming, smoky chaos.

  N’toya, the priest on his knees in front of him. General Francis. It didn’t matter. All he could see was the yellow head pressed against Cat’s, the pistol at her temple, her precious body pulled across the Afrikaner, shielding him.

  Reitholder was going to drag her into the trees, to the Land Rover. She was the hostage he needed.

  A head shot, Campbell thought. Sudden, without warning. If Reitholder had even an instant’s suspicion Campbell had him in his sights, the bastard would take his last pleasure on this earth by killing her first.

  Campbell took in the orange glow from the burning barn, the roiling black smoke, the sudden bursts of flame shooting into the black night, the erratic play of light and shadow. And the Afrikaner’s head, as close to Cat’s as if it was part of her body.

  Reitholder slammed the Beretta against Cat’s ear. He jerked her back, braced against her weight as her feet went from under her. She struggled for purchase but she was helpless, upright only because of his arm across her throat, forcing her head back. She tore at his arm with both hands, gouging his flesh. He tapped the Beretta against her skull. She had slipped away before, but now she was a gift from God.

  “Struggle, missy, and I end it now. Stay quiet, and maybe you live.”

  “Reitholder, you’re making it worse,” N’toya shouted.

  Reitholder ignored him. He dragged her backward, toward the haven of the trees. “You have a Land Rover.” He loosened his hold to allow her to speak. “Where?”

  Cat tried to swallow. He intended to kill her. This was the same terror that Joel had felt, at the hands of the same man. She’d get the same fate, a bullet in the head. She could not answer. Her throat was closed with terror, with the smoke from the blazing barn, the stink of charred flesh and burning elephant tusks.

  “Where is it?” Reitholder shoved the gun hard under her chin. “The Land Rover. No heroics, missy.”