9:12 A.M.
Charlotte slumped down the trunk of a palm. She shivered, chilled, despite the exertion and the growing morning heat. She gratefully sank to her seat, leaning her back against the tree, and positioned her rifle across her knees.
Monk remained on his feet and gently lowered an older woman, a patient of fifty or sixty, to the ground. The woman’s head lolled back. She then slipped onto her side, unable to hold herself up on her own.
Monk looked on with concern, then faced the forest. “We should be deep enough in the woods by now.”
Good. It’s not like we can go any farther.
Disanka had collapsed nearby when the stop was called. Her legs had been trembling; her arms could barely hold the limp boy in her lap. She sat now, hunched over him, sheltering him with her entire body. The baby was nonresponsive, barely breathing. He did not have long to live.
Charlotte leaned her head back. It pounded, and she had difficulty swallowing. She wiped at her lips, which felt fat and numb, like after a novocaine injection.
I’ve failed him, failed them all.
Ndaye settled his own patient to the forest floor, a gangly young man of twenty or so. He shivered like Charlotte. He sat with his head hanging between his knees. Snot ran from his nose, but he made no effort to wipe it away.
The eco-guard shifted over and offered a water bottle to a pair of adolescents, a boy and girl. They shied from him, maybe fearful of his swollen, beaten face. From the way they clung to each other, supporting one another, she wondered if they might be brother and sister, or maybe simply two frightened children who needed a measure of closeness to hold back their terror.
Monk crouched next to her, but his eyes looked off toward the outpost. They had all heard the explosions a few moments ago. “Someone’s still engaging De Coster’s forces.”
“Tucker and Frank . . .” she mumbled.
Who else could it be?
Monk nodded and glanced around the group, all slumped under the canopy. He gripped his pistol higher. “We’re as hidden as we can be.”
She understood what he was hesitant to ask. “Go help them. Take Ndaye.” She lifted her rifle and nodded to Kane. “We’ll keep watch here.”
He nodded his thanks, then quickly spoke to Ndaye. A spatter of gunfire echoed through the forest. Monk glanced one last time toward her, clearly checking if she wanted to change her mind.
She waved them away. “Go.”
They took off.
Charlotte listened until she could no longer hear the soft crunch of their boots. She rubbed at her sore eyes and shifted higher against the trunk. It took more effort than she had imagined. She steadied the rifle on her knees, but her hands trembled on the weapon’s stock.
She didn’t know if it was the disease or simply exhaustion. At this point, she couldn’t remember the last time she had slept.
The others all settled into various degrees of slumber or lassitude.
As she kept guard over them, she fought against the drooping of her eyelids. Despite her terror, she caught herself drifting off, her chin hitting her sternum. She bobbed her head back up, which set her skull to pounding again. She stared at her hands. They were empty. The rifle sat at her toes. Her numb fingers had dropped it.
She collected the weapon back up.
Maybe I should’ve had Ndaye stay with us.
She turned to the other guard on duty. Kane kept close, still standing, with his ears tall. She reached and patted him.
We’ve got this.
As she touched him, she felt his sides vibrating. A low growl flowed. His hackles rose under her palms. His gaze was fixed to the darker woods, away from the compound. His growl became a low snarl of warning.
Someone’s out there.
She firmed her hold on the rifle, but her fingers refused to obey. The weapon slipped and slid, feeling oily in her numb grip. She tried to stand, only to discover any effort left her limbs trembling.
She turned to the only weapon she could trust.
“Kane . . .”
He glanced once to her—then back out to the woods.
She lifted an arm, which took all her effort, and pointed. She used the command that Tucker had taught them in case of emergency.
“PROTECT.”
27
April 25, 9:15 A.M. CAT
Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo
Ensconced in his barricaded office, Nolan studied the bank of security monitors. He leaned on his fists, his face so heated it felt sunburned. He surveyed the status of the compound. Only a few cameras still operated, offering him a sketchy view of the camp.
The feed from the top of the church steeple showed the smoldering wreckage of the two helicopters, his planned exit from the island. Spatters of gunfire still reached him, mostly centered around the square, but the two earlier grenade blasts also echoed in his head. The explosions had shaken the entire guesthouse.
Afterward, Nolan had been unable to raise Draper.
“What are we going to do?” a nasally voice begged behind him.
He glanced over to Ngoy. The researcher paced before the steel shutters across the balcony. His eyes shone with fear as he hugged his arms around his belly.
“We’re getting out of here,” Nolan said.
“How?”
Nolan turned to a monitor running feed from an active camera. It showed a shimmer of the river, a long dock, and his armored personal yacht. The ship’s sixty-foot length was plated in steel, all of its windows bulletproof. He had ferried dignitaries aboard it, even a U.S. president. In such a volatile region, the yacht’s fortifications were a necessity. He had once survived a rocket attack by rebel forces aboard that craft while piloting the vessel himself.
And now it will keep me safe yet again.
He hit a button on the monitoring station. A panel of steel-reinforced zebrawood slid aside behind his desk, revealing a secret stair. The steps led down to a camouflaged garage at the back of the building, where an electric ATV was parked. It would whisk them to the dock, avoiding the battle around the main square.
Ngoy rushed over, his eyes huge, his face hopeful.
Only a handful of people knew about the secret exit. Like the armor on the yacht, securing a covert escape was an equally smart precaution.
Nolan intended to survive, to right this listing ship. He could still turn this plague to his advantage. He hadn’t become CEO because of needless panic. He adhered to Baron Rothschild’s adage: Buy when there’s blood on the street.
He glanced to the wreckage in the square, the broken bodies around it. Though the equation had become more difficult, he was determined to solve it.
He straightened, ready to head off.
As he stepped away, his computer chimed behind him. Both surprised and curious, he crossed to his desk to answer the video call. He tapped the keyboard, and the familiar face of Corporal Willem, the Belgian military engineer, appeared on the screen. The young man hunched low, his face running with sweat, but he hadn’t abandoned his post. Then again, the communication shack was built of concrete blocks, practically its own fortress.
“What is it, Corporal?”
“Sir,” Willem gasped out. “You instructed me to inform you if I detected another aberrant transmission.”
It took Nolan a full breath to remember. “That satellite communication from the jungle.”
“It was picked up again. Farther to the east. I ran it through the decryption program. The one the Chinese hackers sold to us.”
“And?”
“It failed.”
Nolan wasn’t surprised. The Chinese couldn’t be trusted.
“But that initial decryption broke it enough for my own hack to discern a single word.”
“And what was that?”
“The word was ‘cure.’”
Nolan stiffened, clenching a fist. He had been convinced that the forces directed against him were far more sophisticated than mere mercenaries. Likewise, he suspected that aberrant signal coming from the deep jungle was tied to the attack here. That unknown variable needed to be eliminated.