Unable to communicate with words, Black pulled out a gun and raised it in the air. The men stepped back and raised their hands in a gesture of surrender. Black scanned the area and spotted a motorcycle sitting by itself near the entrance to a hut.
He straddled the bike and kicked up the stand with his heel. The villagers started shouting at him in what he took as a plea to not take the bike.
“Medicine,” one man said in a thick accent.
Black glanced behind the bike and noticed a small metal basket attached to the backseat and hanging over the fender. “Médicine” was scrawled on a piece of cardboard fastened to the basket.
Black understood their protests, but there wasn’t time to explain. “I’ll bring it back,” he shouted before roaring away.
He rode with Shantu in front of him, using his arms to keep Shantu secure as they raced around corners. Black rode deep enough into the woods that he was a significant distance from the main path. But he could still see the clearing created by the Kwango, which Black used as a guide to navigate him toward civilization.
Following ten minutes of hard driving, Black stopped and got off the bike to inspect Shantu. With the boy’s wound still not dressed, Black ripped his t-shirt off and used it to create a makeshift bandage. He wrapped it around Shantu’s left shoulder.
“L'eau,” Shantu said, his cry for water weak but strong enough for Black to hear it.
Black saw a small tributary that had branched off the Kwango a few meters ahead. Using the bike, Black pushed Shantu to the water’s edge and helped him down to the edge to drink. Shantu wasted no time in getting hydrated. When he was finished, he smacked his lips together and released a faint smile.
Still groggy from the events of the past half-hour, Shantu thanked Black.
“How’s your arm?” Black asked.
“I’ll live,” Shantu said before pausing. “How did my brother die?”
“Let’s get where we’re going and I’ll tell you more later,” Black said. “It’s a long story.”
“No,” Shantu said, kicking at the dirt. “I’ll hear it now.”
Black sighed as he glanced at his watch. “We really need to get going again. If we get caught—”
“I don’t care about that,” Shantu said. “I want to know how my brother died.”
Black explained again what had happened to Patrice, withholding the gorier details. But that didn’t stop Shantu from breaking down into tears.
“Why did you do this to him?” Shantu asked.
“He’d still be alive if you hadn’t done this.”
Black nodded. “I know. And you’d still be a slave of Kazadi. Is that what you wanted?”
“No, but—”
“You’re a child, Shantu. Your brother knew—as do I—that no boy your age is supposed to be wielding a weapon and killing innocent people.”
“But I—”
“I know this is hard for you, but you will thank me later.”
Shantu set his jaw and glared at Black. “It’s your fault and you know it.”
Black sighed and glanced back at the jungle.
Shantu slapped at the water and stood before storming toward the bike. He stopped and glanced back at Black before kicking it over. The motorcycle hit the ground with a thud, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“Did that make you feel better?” Black asked, nodding at the motorcycle.
Shantu didn’t say anything.
Black gestured for Shantu to join him on the seat. “We’ve got a long journey ahead, but we don’t have any more time to spare. Get on.”
Shantu pouted as he took his position in front of Black on the bike. When he bumped Shantu’s arm, he winced.
“We need to get you to a doctor,” Black said.
“I’ll be fine,” Shantu said. “I’ve been shot before. This is nothing.”
Black kickstarted the bike before revving the engine and tearing off through the forest. They rode for another twenty minutes before arriving at a small modern town situated near the river. There were a few paved roads, including one that connected to a highway that led north to Kinshasa.
Black drove until he reached a small farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Unsure if Shantu would attempt to drive off on the motorcycle, Black removed the spark plug and pocketed it. Then he approached the front door and knocked on it. But no one answered. After surveying the area, he opened the door and searched for any first-aid materials. He found a bandage and some disinfectant pads and then left.
Black walked the bike toward a small storage facility located at the back of the property. He instructed Shantu to sit on the ground in order to dress the wound. As Black inspected the wound, he attempted another conversation with Shantu.
“You’re lucky,” Black said. “That bullet went straight through your arm, meaning you probably won’t have any infection.”
Shantu offered a weak smile. “I guess there’s always a positive thing to take from even the worst situations. At least, that’s what my father used to say.”
“Your father was a wise man.”
“I hardly remember him,” Shantu said. “It’s almost like he was a dream.”
“What was he like?”
Shantu shrugged. “He was kind to my mother and me and Patrice. He laughed a lot and liked to tell funny jokes. He used to play with us, which got him in trouble with my mother.”
“I’ll help you, Shantu. Your life will be different now.”
“Will you take me with you?”
“Depends,” Black said. “You don’t have to leave Congo if you don’t want to. But I know there’s a different life, a better life. The kind of life where you can become who you’re supposed to be without evil men using you for their purposes.”
“I don’t know what I want in this life.”
“You have your whole life ahead of you. But you shouldn’t be forced into killing others at your age.”
Black pressed the bandage against Shantu’s skin, sealing the wound from the outside air.
“I won’t pretend I’d know what your father would want for you,” Black continued, “but I have a pretty good idea that he wouldn’t want you to be a soldier at twelve years old.”
Shantu stared blankly through the open door and out into the field. “I don’t know either, but Kazadi is like my father now.”
“Not anymore,” Black said. “Everything is going to change.
Black jumped to his feet. “I have to make a quick phone call. Please stay here.”
Black pulled out his phone and pumped his fist at recognizing that he had a signal. He dialed Shields’ number and waited for her to answer.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m in a bind here,” he said.
“Is Geller safe?”
“From terrorists? Yes—for the time being. From Mother Nature? That remains to be seen.”
“Are you with her?”
“No,” Black said. “I had to let her go. She flew off with the pilot but into a thunderstorm.”
“What happened?” Shields asked, her exasperation showing in her voice.
“It’s a long story, but I had to go back for someone.”
“An American?”
“No,” he said. “A boy soldier. And now I’m not sure how much he wanted to be saved, even though those bastards shot him.”
“Classic Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps?”
“Or he could just be scared because he’s completely alone in the world now,” Black said. “His brother helped me navigate the river, but ADF troops killed him.”
“So, what you’re saying is you’re pinned down behind enemy lines with a reluctant ADF combatant?”
“He’s twelve.”
“He’s also trained to kill,” Shields said. “Don’t let his age fool you.”
“I know, I know. But I think he’ll come around. I just need to help him snap out of his stupor.”
“You sound like the one in a stupor,” she said. “I’d love to help yo
u out, but President Young continues to keep us hamstrung in our efforts to extract you. Until Geller is confirmed safe, you’re stuck.”
“If something changes, call me back on this number,” Black said.
“What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll think of something.”
Black ended the call before he kicked at the dirt and let out a string of expletives.
CHAPTER 24
Washington, D.C.
MICHELLE RYLAND TUCKED her hair behind her ears as she read over her script. She’d been in Washington for over a year, desperately searching for a story that would catapult her name to the lips of every news director in the country. Landing a job as a White House reporter was high on her list of career goals—but not for a local Virginia television station. She wanted to be a highly-paid—and highly-respected—journalist. And that would never happen if she stayed at the CBS station in Norfolk, Virginia very long.
She fiddled with her ear bud and adjusted the volume. The early morning show on Channel 3 covered a wide variety of topics, mostly guests related to happenings in the community as well as a few news features. In most cases, major news was held for the mid-day show. But this was an exception.
As Ryland took a deep breath and tried to stay calm, she could hear an audible buzz of conversation from the newsroom every time someone spoke to her. Based on all the text messages she’d received, the entire station was excited about the prospect of having their viewers and online numbers soar by exposing a cover-up by the administration. And Ryland couldn’t wait to share it with the world.
For the past few days, she’d spent hours stalking her sources at the State Department and the Pentagon, inquiring about the whereabouts of Secretary Geller. Before Geller left, she’d given a brief press conference that Ryland attended. And the reporter saw a note scrawled on a piece of paper that suggested Geller was leaving for Africa earlier than her office claimed.
Ryland wondered why Geller was leaving so early and where she was going. At first, it didn’t seem to matter much, but then she started to hear reports over social media originating out of Africa that Geller was in Congo. At first, Ryland dismissed the reports as absurd. But when she didn’t get a response back about the secretary’s activity two days earlier, Ryland’s suspicion grew. That was all but confirmed when she found a grainy video of a woman who looked strikingly similar to Geller being held at gunpoint. When Ryland confronted the State Department media relations team with the images, they said that wasn’t her and that they knew where she was—on her way to Africa.
But Ryland sensed they were lying. And when she asked for proof that Geller was on her plane, the reporter didn’t receive an answer, which actually confirmed that she was right.
Ryland straightened the collar on her blouse and stood up straight, accentuating her figure. She smiled broadly and looked directly at the camera, rehearsing her lines again before going live.
“You look great,” said Eddie, the veteran cameraman who’d spent the past three decades working with White House reporters at Channel 3.
“Thanks,” she said, dropping the phony smile.
“Just be a little more natural when we go live,” Eddie suggested. “And don’t smile. You wouldn’t want viewers to think you were happy about the news.”
Ryland nodded and glanced back down at her paper. She hated the advice Eddie doled out. All he cared about was how she looked—and he was obnoxious about it.
She checked her watch. They were scheduled to go live in five minutes, and she could feel the butterflies churning in her stomach. She read quietly to herself, practicing the pacing and delivery of her lead in to the story.
Deep breath, Michelle. At least Gloria didn’t get this story.
As she was in the middle of reading the script again, she heard the voice of her producer booming in her ear.
“We’re pulling the plug on this story,” Robert Houghton said.
Ryland’s mouth fell agape. “You’re what?”
“You heard me. We’re dropping the live shot and going with another canned story.”
“I’ve got everything we need for this story, including sources and supporting documentation,” she said. “You better not be giving this to Gloria on the desk.”
Gloria Simmons was three years Ryland’s senior and a little more glamorous, too. To say they were rivals was an understatement.
“Nobody’s doing this story,” he said.
“And why not?” Ryland demanded
“I’m saving your career, kid,” Houghton said. “You’ll thank me later. Give me a call after you’ve uploaded the other story you’re working on for tonight’s five o’clock broadcast.”
The line went dead. She pulled out the ear bud and stomped around for a half-minute, nearly breaking her heels.
“It’s all right,” Eddie said. “At least you didn't lose your job over it, which you surely would’ve if you’d gone live. You would've been the laughing stock of the internet.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Eddie held up his phone with a video playing on it.
“What’s that?” Ryland asked as she stormed over to him.
“The State Department just released this video,” he said. “It’s of Secretary Geller doing humanitarian work in Congo. They didn’t want anyone knowing she was going there for security reasons, but she’s fine now and gearing up for the big summit in South Africa tomorrow.”
Ryland narrowed her eyes after watching the clip. “That’s a lie,” she said, pointing at the screen.
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” he said. “But do you want to gamble with your career like that? Apparently Robert wasn’t willing to gamble with his.”
“I still want to do this story,” she said.
“Then you’ll have to find another cameraman—and your own camera,” Eddie said. “I’m not about to jeopardize my job because you’re believing the lies someone over at the State Department is telling you.”
“My source is at the Pentagon—and he’s never lied to me yet.”
“That you’re aware of,” Eddie said, shaking his head with a wry grin. “Come on, Ryland. You’ve been in this city all of five minutes. Every politician and bureaucrat comes here with dreams of getting rich by selling a story to the American people that fits an agenda. And the crazy thing is, the agenda doesn’t even matter all that much. The sole agenda for most people in this city is to simply get rich. And no one seems to care which side of the issue they’re on.”
“That’s cynical, Eddie, even from you.”
He shrugged and chuckled. “If you last much longer here, you’ll be the same way.”
“Never,” she said. “I’m a principled journalist.”
“Hold on a second,” Eddie said, putting his right hand to his ear piece. “Stay right there. Robert just said to make sure I capture footage of this rare species in the wild.”
“Oh, shut up, Eddie.”
“I had you going for a minute,” he said, pointing at her and smiling.
“Pack up,” she said. “I still have work to do today.”
* * *
ROBERT BESSERMAN WATCHED the short news piece about Secretary Geller stopping in Congo to do some humanitarian work. Fifteen minutes after it was posted, Good Morning America scooped up the clip from Geller’s official social media account and packaged it up for a brief segment.
Besserman smiled and shook his head. Torpedoing a damning story poised to come out in a matter of minutes would’ve never been this easy twenty years ago. He still hated the internet and social media—but not today. The would-be narrative was turned on its head. Public relations disaster averted.
He enjoyed the tiny victory, giving him something to smile about after another day of continued anxiety and uncertainty.
His phone buzzed with a call from President Young.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Besserman said as he answered.
“That was a stroke
of genius, Bobby,” Young said. “I don’t know how you pulled that one off, but you did an incredible job of getting all that footage together in such short order.”
“I appreciate that, sir. When you specialize in counterintelligence, you can do the disinformation part in your sleep.”
There was a moment of silence from Young.
“Sir? Are you still there?” Besserman asked.
“Yeah, what exactly do you mean by that?”
Besserman was surprised by the question. “I'm sorry, sir. I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“We still haven’t heard from Secretary Geller,” Besserman said.
“What are you talking about? Where did all that footage come from?”
“One of her aides pulled it from the cloud connected to the cell phone of several staffers and cobbled together that clip.”
“So we still don’t know where she is or if she’s even alive?” Young asked.
Besserman sighed. “No, sir. Not yet. But we’re still working on it.”
“I thought you’d pulled off a miracle in Congo, Bobby.”
“I just bought us more time, sir.”
“You kicked the can down the road is what you did,” Young said with a growl. “That’s not what I wanted.”
“And extracting her by civilian aircraft wasn’t what I wanted either, but here we are.”
“This better not backfire on me,” Young said. “Because if it does, I’m holding you responsible.”
“If all goes well, Secretary Geller will be a hero in short order.”
“You’ve known me long enough to understand that I don’t operate under wishful thinking.”
“With all due respect, sir, not being honest about Geller when she’s being held hostage by the ADF in the middle of the jungle means you’re indulging in some serious wishful thinking.”
State of Conspiracy (Titus Black Thriller series Book 8) Page 11