I’m getting sick.
She had told no one, fearing they would force her to stay behind. She couldn’t let that happen. She would defend her patients with her last breath. She remembered her promise to Disanka. She pictured the baby boy’s delicate features, the pink purse of his mouth.
“Almost there,” Monk said. “Anything from Kane?”
She lifted the dog’s transceiver. Armed with his pistol, Monk had no free hand to carry it. The tiny screen showed a view between two palms, obscured by the fronds of a fern. “Kane’s stopped. So far, the back of the medical ward looks clear.”
“Then let’s go.” Monk hurried the last of the distance to the forest’s edge.
They found Kane nestled under bushes. His gaze remained on the windowless rear of the Quonset hut. The entrance lay on the far side.
She and Monk crouched next to the dog. An open stretch of ten yards separated them from their goal. Trash and piles of debris, including red bags of medical waste, covered the ground. She and Monk shared a look, both ready to move closer.
Before Charlotte could step out of hiding, a shout rose from beyond the hut. She recognized the curt, irritated voice of Ngoy.
“Get moving, you imbéciles! We have no more time!”
A moment later, a cluster of lab-coated figures hurried into view. Two of them pushed gurneys, with stacks of CPUs and file boxes precariously piled on top. As the wheels rattled along the wooden plankways, one of the boxes tumbled off and hit the ground hard, spilling papers.
“Be careful!” Ngoy yelled. “That’s all my hard work!”
Charlotte silently cursed the bastard. Even now, it was all about him. One of the techs hastily gathered the papers back into the box and set off after the others.
“We’re running out of time,” Monk said.
She nodded. Still, they waited until Ngoy’s group had vanished out of view. Once all was quiet again, they set off through the trash piles. Kane kept alongside them. They reached the hut and circled the side that was farthest from the bustling central square.
Once around, Charlotte stopped at the corner and studied the entrance, lit by a single caged bulb. They waited for three breaths. No one else exited the medical ward. Across the way stood the dark Quonset hut that served as a morgue and pathology lab. She pictured the dead bodies stacked inside there.
With a small shudder, she returned her focus to the medical ward.
Is anyone still alive in there? Or had it been turned into another morgue?
Her ears strained to hear beyond the hum of the generators. The small windows on this side glowed, but she spotted no movement inside.
Monk set off again, drawing her and Kane onward. They ran low along the wall, keeping clear of the windows. Steps from the entrance, the sharp crack of a gunshot froze them all in place. It came from inside the ward. Then a moment again, another blast.
Charlotte knew there could be only one reason for the gunfire.
Now that the researchers had fled . . .
Someone’s slaughtering the patients.
8:34 A.M.
Frank shook his head with despair. He gripped the barred gate of the armory. The place had been ransacked. Except for a handful of loose rounds scattered across the concrete floor, the weapons cache had been emptied.
“No wonder they left it unguarded,” he mumbled. He turned to Tucker, who kept his face low, his weapon slung loosely at his shoulder. “What now?”
Tucker nodded toward the neighboring stone church. They retreated as discreetly as possible amidst the tumult of the square. They were still in the combat gear obtained at the mine, both the Kevlar body armor and the gray-green helmets. While not exactly the outfit worn by Draper’s forces, it was close enough, especially amidst the chaos of the evacuation.
In the deeper shadows alongside the church, Tucker pointed to Ndaye. The eco-guard still knelt between the two helicopters. His hands had been zip-tied behind his back. His head hung low, blood dripping off his chin and from a broken nose.
“We need to free him,” Tucker said. “Get him out of harm’s way. Plus, I need to get a closer look at that gunship. Make sure Draper isn’t aboard there.”
They had yet to spot the captain. Frank scowled at the helicopter. Its rumbling could be felt in his chest. Compared to the tinier Gazelle, it looked like a massive lion sitting on its haunches, waiting to attack. Frank identified the craft as an older Russian Mi-24 Hind, what the Soviets called a flying tank. Gear continued to be loaded inside.
Frank tightened his jaw. “What’s the plan?”
Tucker straightened and stepped toward where Ndaye was guarded over by a Congolese soldier with a rifle. “We pretend like we belong here.”
Frank hurried after him, drawing alongside. “Then you’d better let me do the talking. I’ve got the right complexion.” He motioned to his face. “Plus, I heard you try to speak French. Just your pronunciation alone will expose us. And your grammar will get us killed.”
“That’s exactly what my high school French teacher said.”
Frank pushed forward to lead the way. “Keep that pale face of yours down.”
They strode with a purposeful step. Tucker elbowed aside a soldier struggling with a handcart piled with crates. Frank tried to mimic Tucker’s confidence, but sweat ran down his back, and his fingers fidgeted with his rifle. They sidled and sidestepped through the flurry of activity and closed upon Ndaye and the guard. The soldier ignored their approach, more focused on dragging deeply on a cigarette.
He didn’t give Frank or Tucker a second glance until Frank pointed at Ndaye. Frank cleared his throat, yelling to be heard over the helicopter’s engines. “Capitaine Draper sent us to take the prisoner. He’s done with the batard and wants him dispatched.”
The guard finally stirred, slipping the cigarette from his lips and leaning closer so he could be heard. “I thought the captain wanted to take him with us, to finish the interrogatoire.”
“The man . . . he is no longer important.”
The guard must have heard the hesitation in his voice and squinted harder at Frank’s face, as if struggling to recognize him.
Frank turned aside to make that more difficult. He gestured vaguely behind him. “Check with Capitaine Draper, but he is in a foul mood. More than usual.”
The soldier rocked his head, acknowledging the universal truth held by subordinates for their superiors.
Tucker pressed another truth. He kept his head low and held out a palm and motioned with his fingers. “Let me bum one of your ciga rettes,” he managed in passable French. Luckily the rumbling engines and low whomping of the rotors masked his terrible accent.
The soldier retreated a step, clearly not willing to forgo what was likely in limited supply. Tucker must have assumed it was a request that the man would refuse.
The soldier obliged, waving them away. “Take the batard and be gone.”
Before anyone interceded, Frank and Tucker grabbed Ndaye by the shoulders and pulled him up roughly. Throughout this exchange, the eco-guard hadn’t lifted his head, clearly resigned to his fate. Ndaye struggled for balance as they got him on his feet, dazed and bleary from his beating.
Half-dragging Ndaye between them, they carried him away from the helicopters. Once clear, Tucker leaned to the eco-guard’s ear. “Thanks for saving my life back at the river. About time I returned the favor.”
Ndaye stiffened and tilted his head toward Tucker. His body jolted with recognition. His footing grew more solid. Shock cleared the glaze from his eyes.
“Tucker . . .”
“Let’s get you out of here.” They carried him a few more yards, heading toward the shelter of the church. Before they reached it, Tucker pushed Ndaye toward Frank. “Send him after Monk and Charlotte. I’m going to make a fast canvass of the gunship. Make sure Draper isn’t aboard. I’ll meet you back at the church.”