He lowered his weapon and concentrated on reaching the doors to the science building. Movement along the flank of the helicopter drew his eye. Doors opened, and ropes were unfurled, snaking toward the side of the building where the lab was located.
Then Monk lost sight of the helicopter as he reached the school’s entrance. He braked hard, skidding through grass, and leaped out before the jeep had fully stopped. He sprinted for the door but knew the truth.
I’m too late.
12:34 P.M.
“Why aren’t you all answering?” Frank mumbled with the team’s radio at his lips.
He had been trying to raise Benjie and the rest of the team over at the U.N. camp. He stared at the ant scratching at the sides of the specimen tube. He wanted to relate what he had witnessed: the molting of the ant pupa into this aberration of the species. That is, if it is an aberration, he reminded himself. He couldn’t be entirely sure and wanted to consult with Benjie, who knew more about the Dorylus species than anyone.
He listened for any response to his call, but only heard a buzzing static. It was also hard to hear with a helicopter thumping nearby. Such aircraft—many of them tour operations—had periodically swept over the university campus, so he hadn’t given it much attention, especially with his focus on his strange discovery.
But now . . .
He lowered the radio, realizing the helicopter was not passing the building. It continued to thump overhead. His heart suddenly clenched. He flashed back to Iraq, to when sirens would ring out, warning of an incoming mortar attack, sending soldiers running for cement bunkers or sandbag shelters.
He turned toward the lab’s window just as shadows blackened the view. Gunfire crackled; glass burst. Kevlar-armored figures shattered through the panes, swinging into the lab on ropes. Weapons bristled. A spate of gunfire sent him ducking low behind his lab table.
He had a sidearm holstered at his hip, the weapon courtesy of his newfound allies from D.C. But he didn’t even have time to thumb off the holster’s restraining strap. Gunmen appeared on either side of the table where he crouched. Orders were barked in both Swahili and French. He was not fluent in either, but he understood the intent, reinforced by the assault rifles.
He lifted his arms and slowly stood up.
He was quickly surrounded, stripped of his weapon, and forced at gunpoint to a corner of the room. Another figure—a tall Congolese soldier with a ragged scar across his cheek—carried a harness toward him.
He stared at the ropes dangling outside the window and realized the intent.
They aren’t here to kill me.
He was both relieved and worried. If this was a kidnapping, it meant someone already knew far too much about their operations here. Another soldier ripped Frank’s laptop from its power cord, stripped its connections, and carried it off, clarifying the attacker’s intent.
Someone else out there clearly values my expertise.
12:37 P.M.
Monk had heard gunfire echoing down from above as he climbed the stairs. He was not the only one. He had to shoulder his way upward against a tide of students and faculty fleeing down from above. His raised pistol and loud swearing also helped open a path ahead of him. He paused only long enough to secure what he needed from one of the fleeing teachers. As the way cleared, he took the steps two at a time and rushed for the third floor.
Upon reaching it, he leaned out into the hallway. By now, the level had emptied out. With his SIG at the ready, he did a fast check in both directions, searching for any threat. Satisfied, he ran down the hall, staying low, sticking to one wall. His ears strained for any threat.
Upon reaching the lab’s door, he heard muffled shouts. He didn’t know how many combatants were inside, but he dared not wait. He placed his SIG Sauer on the floor and toed it out of view.
Girding himself, he tapped in the electronic code on the lock, waited for the green light, and grabbed the door handle. With a final inhale of resolve, he shoved the way open. He burst into the room, lifting what he had stolen from one of the teachers. It was a thick folder of loose-leaf papers. He didn’t know what they were. A pile of student tests? Research notes? A draft of a novel in progress?
He didn’t care—it would serve his purpose well enough.
At least I hope so.
As soon he entered the room, he studied the folder in hand. “Dr. Whitaker! I have the virology results. Shocking results! You’ll want to—”
Monk then stumbled to a stop, feigning surprise at the cluster of black-clad soldiers inside. Weapons trained on Monk. He counted five armed men, confirming his earlier assessment that a one-man rescue attempt would prove futile here.
Frank stood in a corner, strapped in a harness.
A single shot fired in Monk’s direction, ringing past his ear and down the hall. He yelped, ducked to the side, and threw his folder high, scattering the papers in all directions.
As he did so, he stared hard at Frank, trying to silently communicate his intent.
The man proved himself no fool, even in such dire straits.
“Don’t shoot!” Frank yelled. “That’s my research assistant. I need to know what he found out!”
A few of the gunmen glanced to a tall Congolese standing by a shattered window. It had to be the team leader. Past the man’s shoulder, Monk spotted rooster tails of dust as military vehicles raced toward the science building. Pressed for time, the scarred man studied Monk for a breath—then barked orders.
Monk found himself manhandled toward Frank. He didn’t resist, keeping his arms high. Another harness was brought forward.
As he was secured into it, Monk cast a sidelong look at Frank. The army vet frowned at him, clearly wondering what Monk was thinking. Monk answered with the slightest shrug. Granted, it wasn’t the brightest plan, but he had limited options. Earlier, he had guessed that the enemy must be planning on snatching Frank, like they had done with the U.N. doctors yesterday. Otherwise, the bastards would’ve simply firebombed the entire top floor of the science building.
Knowing this, Monk had devised this risky gambit, heeding the wisdom of an old adage.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
12
April 24, 1:14 P.M. CAT
Tshopo Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
With his sat-phone pressed to his ear, Gray surveyed the ruins of the former U.N. camp. The firebombed remnants of a flooded village poked from the black waters of the swollen Tshopo River. Dark jungles surrounded on all sides, piping, croaking, and buzzing with life.
Closer at hand was only death.
Rows of bodies were lined like cord wood under canvas shrouds. He had already examined many of them. Some were villagers, a few were members of the U.N. team, and others were dressed in ragtag militia uniforms. According to Ndaye, the latter were scattered here purposefully, an attempt to cover up the true culprits behind the attack.
Gray watched Benjie as he knelt beside one of the villager’s bodies. The corpse looked skinned and covered in black blood. Gray tried to picture what had transpired here before the armed assault. Benjie had related the deadening malaise that had afflicted several of the refugees, how they had not even resisted the ravages of the army ants. As the biologist worked, Benjie’s face had drained of color, his eyes were fixed and unblinking. To the side, Ndaye and Faraji dragged the limp form of a dead baboon by its arms toward their group. Frank had wanted samples collected from the wildlife here, too.