Still, this worked to Tucker’s advantage. He had made a complete circuit of the outpost without being spotted. He wanted to get a proper lay of the land before attempting anything more. At the pier, he had counted five sleek watercraft, along with a handful of jet skis, even a sixty-foot yacht that looked like an armored gunboat. The fleet was guarded over by a pillbox made of sandbags buried at the forest’s edge. From that fortified spot, a Russian-made Kord 12.7mm heavy machine gun pointed toward the dock.
A lone guard lolled there, smoking a cigarette. Focused on the river, the man failed to note Tucker and Kane slipping past behind him. As Tucker suspected, most of the attention and patrols concentrated on the dockside end of the island. Once he confirmed this detail, he left Kane hidden in the forest over there, then circled back to the darker, less patrolled edge of the outpost.
Two questions remained.
Am I even at the right place? And are the others even here?
While scouting, he had continually monitored the outpost. It was poorly lit with only a scatter of sodium lamps and a bonfire in the central square. Still, his night-vision goggles pierced the shadows well enough. He had not spotted any sign of Monk or Frank. At this late hour, maybe they were locked up in some cell for the night.
Tucker kept close watch on two of the buildings. He had noted men in white lab jackets going in and out of a Quonset hut, suggesting it was a hospital or a research station. Before Tucker had set out, Painter had told him that the kidnappers had absconded with Frank’s lab equipment. If they had done that, it suggested they wanted the virologist’s expertise, and if that hut was indeed a lab of some sort, maybe Frank was holed up inside.
The other building where Tucker focused his attention was the colonial guesthouse. From all the comings and goings there, it had to be the outpost’s headquarters. Unfortunately, there was no vantage point from which he could watch both places. Recognizing that, he had taken up a position closest to the guesthouse. In turn, he had instructed Kane to remain on the opposite side of the compound, where the dog’s camera remained fixed on the laboratory hut. The only problem with this plan was that Kane’s video feed had become patchier and more sporadic due to the local jamming. He had come to suspect the enemy must communicate on a coded frequency with their robotic guard dogs to keep them moving.
Still, for the moment, Kane’s transmission fared well enough.
Now to wait . . .
As he did, he hated not having Kane at his side, but his partner still felt close. Kane’s breathing whispered in his ear. He heard the occasional shift of his partner’s body among the leaves. With the camera stalk raised, he even saw through Kane’s eyes. It was that intimacy that gave him his first warning.
Kane growled, just a rumbling.
Tucker focused on his partner’s camera feed inside his goggles. He watched a group exit the Quonset hut. They all wore matching blue scrubs, guarded over by a tall Congolese soldier with a rifle. Even from that distance, Tucker spotted the towering form of his friend Frank. Kane rumbled again, likely also recognizing the veterinarian, a man who had cared for the dog throughout his years in the army.
The group was marched away at gunpoint. They quickly disappeared out of Kane’s view. Tucker held his breath. Then the group reappeared in the central square, illuminated by the bonfire. With the group closer to him, Tucker identified Monk by his shaved head glowing in the firelight. The other two in blue scrubs were a young woman, her dark hair tied in a ponytail, and an older man with gray hair and a goatee. Painter had shown Tucker photos of the two missing U.N. doctors.
That’s got to be them.
The Congolese guard herded the group toward the two-story guesthouse, confirming Tucker’s supposition that it was the outpost’s headquarters.
Must be where they’re keeping them for the night.
He waited until the group was led inside, then counted off a full three minutes. He wanted the group somewhere safe and together. His plan required perfect timing.
Once satisfied, he subvocalized his commands to Kane. “BRAVO PATTERN. ON MY MARK.” He counted another twenty seconds to be extra cautious. “GO!”
17
April 24, 8:32 P.M. CAT
Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo
Monk stifled a yawn as the cell door clanked closed behind their group. He studied the cement-block cell, noting the steel bars on the windows, the row of cots along one wall.
Home sweet home.
The two U.N. doctors headed toward a set of disheveled beds. Clearly the two had spent a night here already. Frank merely scowled at their accommodations.
Monk glanced back to the scarred Congolese soldier; a former lieutenant named Ekon. “How about some dinner?” he called to the man through the barred door. “It’s been a long day.”
The man sneered, turning a key to lock them in.
Monk crossed closer, as if to press the matter, but he really wanted to get a better look at the hallway. He studied the pair of cameras mounted high on the wall, one pointed toward the cell door, the other down the hall. Though he failed to spot any microphones, he had to assume the cameras came equipped with them. His group would have to be cautious in speaking candidly in the cell.
As Monk turned away, a sharp blast echoed to him. It came from outside, maybe a short distance from them. Another followed. And another. Everyone froze in place. It sounded like fireworks, but from the tense posture of their guard, it wasn’t the Congo’s Fourth of July.
A moment later, panicked shouting reached them.
Someone’s attacking this place.
Monk quickly calculated. It might be a guerrilla raid, but the timing and coincidence gave him hope. He made a snap judgment call, knowing he might be putting them all at risk.
He stepped to the door and grabbed the bars. “What’s happening?” he shouted to the guard, feigning terror as another blast exploded.
Ekon crouched outside the door, his weapon raised to his shoulder, the muzzle pointed down the hallway. “Get back!” he snapped angrily.
Monk obliged, retreating from the door. Only he had detached his prosthesis and left it latched to the bars—just above the lock.
He quickly turned to the others. “Do what he says! Get back!”
He shoved Jameson toward the rear of the cell. Frank must have heard the urgency and shepherded Charlotte with him. The French doctor looked aghast at Monk’s disembodied hand, likely having failed to note it was a prosthetic.
Oh, it’s much more than that.
Monk tapped a code into the titanium magnetic link that normally locked his prosthetic in place. He pressed the last contact point, then waved everyone toward the floor. “Down! Now!”
The C4 pellet buried under the prosthetic’s palm exploded. The blast deafened them all. The flash blinded. The concussion knocked everyone to the floor.
Except for Monk.
Anticipating the blast, he had braced his legs. He shoved back through the hot smoke and toward the door. The explosion had shattered the lock and knocked the gate off one of its hinges.
Ekon lay sprawled in the hallway, caught by the blast, possibly also struck by the door. But he proved to be a tough bastard and already stirred, struggling to his hands and knees.
Monk met his raised head with a boot heel to his nose. Bone crunched in a most satisfying way. The man went down again—this time out cold.
“Hurry!” Monk hollered to the others.
The doctors remained stunned, but Frank got them moving.
Monk retrieved the soldier’s assault rifle and tossed it to Frank. It was a weapon best used by someone with two hands. Instead, he relieved Ekon of his holstered sidearm, a black-and-chrome Browning HP. He gripped it, appreciating its heft and weight.
That’ll do.
Frank checked the rifle and nodded to Monk.
Monk turned to the two doctors. “Stay close. At our heels. Understood?”
Jameson simply gawked, his eyes huge. He had lost his eyeglasses during the tumult. Charlotte looked ashen, but she nodded.
They all set off down the hall.
Monk led the way.
Let’s go see who came to visit.
8:37 P.M.
Under the cover of the dark forest, Tucker tossed a pair of smoke charges toward the colonial outpost. After a five-second delay, they exploded with muffled whomps. Clouds of smoke welled under the canopy. The breeze flowing downriver rolled the pall into the compound.