Page 54 of Murder Island
CHAPTER 63
“WE HERE, BOSS! We here!”
The pilot was shaking me by the shoulders to wake me up. His breath alone would have done the job. I was curled up in the hold of a twin-prop cargo plane with a loaded AR-15 by my side and an extra clip in my pocket. Apparently, I’d slept right through the landing.
The cargo! I sat straight up to make sure it hadn’t escaped. Strapped against the wall were six huge wooden crates of live, bootlegged boa constrictors. From what I could see through the slats, they had all survived the trip, too. I checked my bag for my cutlass. Still there. So was my money. Just less of it.
For five grand, the captain and his party boat got me from Dubai to the southern border of Oman. From there, I hitched a ride on the cargo flight across the Gulf of Aden and over the Horn of Africa. The pilot was from Kenya. He looked about fifteen. But the trip was free, on thecondition that I provide security when we landed. Gun and ammo provided.
The flight was supposed to take seven hours, including two refueling stops. I was asleep the whole time.
As I stood up and checked my rifle, the pilot shoved the cargo hatch open and dropped the ramp. It was hot inside the plane, and even hotter outside. The sun was blazingly bright.
We had landed at Nyanza-Lac Airport on the western edge of Burundi. The airport had been closed for years, but that didn’t seem to matter to the pilot—or to the four men sitting in a jeep on the tarmac.
“Who are they?” I asked the pilot.
“They waiting for us” was his answer.
Our greeters were a careless bunch, smoking cigarettes within ten feet of our fuel tank. Their boots were propped against the open sides of the vehicle, and they were loaded with weapons. A gun rack across the back of the jeep held two double-barreled shotguns. Each man had a holstered .45 on his hip and an MP5 submachine gun in his lap.
Apparently, snake trafficking was a dangerous business.
As the pilot started to unfasten the cargo restraints in the hold, I stepped onto the top of the ramp with my rifle cradled in my arms. I threw my shoulders back to look as imposing as possible, but I gave the guys a little nod to indicate I didn’t want any trouble. They grinned back.
Good sign. Let’s get this over with.
From the doorway of the hold, I could see the eastern shore of the lake about three hundred yards away.
Lake Tanganyika.
One step closer to the Congo, and one step closer to finding Kira—the vengeful Shaba.
If it’s really her.
Please, God—let it be her.
CHAPTER 64
I MOVED TO one side as the pilot wrestled the first crate of snakes across the hold and onto the top of the ramp. He was stronger than he looked. The guys in the jeep hopped out and caught the crate as it slid down. They were muttering to one another in a language I couldn’t pick out. Maybe Kirundi.
They grabbed the crate by the sides and slid it flat onto the tarmac. One of the guys leaned into the jeep and pulled out a thin metal pole with a hooked end. Another guy grabbed a power screwdriver and unfastened the wooden frame of the crate in front.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“We watch,” said the pilot. “We hope.”
The guy with the pole stood in front of the open crate and reached in, keeping his feet in a wide stance. The pilot was standing beside me in the doorway. He was practically vibrating with nervous energy.
The guy with the pole had hooked a boa behind its head. He leaned back and dragged it out of the crate. The snake was not cooperating. It kept slipping the hook and coiling back inside. The guy shouted a few words. Two of his buddies hurried over. They bent down and dragged the snake out with their bare hands.
The thing was massive. Thick body, muddy brown with black bands. It must have weighed sixty pounds.
The guy with the hook kept shouting orders. The two men stretched the snake out on the tarmac until it was full length—nine feet at least. A monster. I figured the next thing to appear would be a measuring tape. They probably paid by the inch.
Instead, the fourth guy walked from the jeep with a survival knife. He knelt down and rolled the snake’s midsection until it was belly up. Then he jammed the knife into the snake’s gut, right up to the hilt.
The snake twisted and coiled into itself. One guy held the head while the other two pulled on the tail, stretching it out again. The guy with the knife went back at it, making the opening a little bit wider. He reached inside with his fingers and pulled out a long plastic packet filled with white powder. Then another. And another.