Page 66 of Murder Island

CHAPTER 81

IN A RUGGED outpost on the southern coast of Somalia, Cal Savage’s protégé Abai picked up the call. The formerPrizrakcrew member listened intently as the captain outlined the mission.

With the ugliness concerning the warlord’s clan behind him, Abai was firmly in command of the local militia—a band of fifty, all under twenty-five, with scores of battles under their belts. Most of them had been soldiers since before they hit puberty.

The instant the call ended, Abai walked out of his tent and surveyed his troops, scattered around the compound in small groups, cooking over propane burners and playing video games on their phones. The men—mostly boys—were already hopped up on khat, which they chewed constantly. They were always ready for action, the wilder the better.

The tiny bay at the edge of the command post was filled with military-grade rigid inflatables and Poluchat-class PT boats, recently liberated from the Somali navy. Crates lined up on the sand held automatic rifles, ammo, and RPGs.

Abai signaled to two tall brothers, Bilan and Abshir, two of his toughest fighters. The brothers knew that Abai was the man who had hung their older sibling from the rigging of a superyacht. But he had earned their loyalty by letting their father live. Also, he paid well.

Abai barked his orders in Swahili. Bilan and Abshir turned and got the rest of the boys moving. Within a few minutes, the air was filled with the roar of marine engines. The troops piled into the boats, guns and ammo belts hanging from their skinny frames. No uniforms, just an assortment of cargo shorts and T-shirts, most of them emblazoned with the logos of heavy-metal bands. Some wore long, flowing red bandanas around their foreheads. They looked like pirates, which most of them were.

As the flotilla mobilized, there were yips and shouts and random gunshots into the air. The troops were excited. Being out on the water was better than sweating in camp, and any kind of action was better than doing nothing.

Abai waded into the surf and climbed aboard one of the PT boats. He walked up to Bilan, who was behind the wheel, and ordered the boat out into the Indian Ocean.He turned and watched the rest of the flotilla spread out in formation behind him.

He directed his small flagship south toward the coastline of Tanzania, the country that stood between him and the Congo—and the two people he’d been assigned to terminate.

CHAPTER 82

I WAS BEGINNING to have second thoughts about abandoning the Land Rover.

I’d sold it to the manager of a gas station near Kianza for forty-four million francs. In two days, I’d only put a few hundred miles on the truck, but they were hard miles. By the end, the transmission was getting balky. I was happy to get most of my investment back.

I figured that in this part of the world, a huge, heavily armed white man in a red truck might set off alarms. If Kira was really in a fight with mercenaries, the last thing I needed was for them to see me coming. So I bought a backpack, loaded it with camping tools and beef jerky, strapped my guns on my shoulders, and headed out into the jungle alone. On foot.

As daylight faded, I was regretting my move.

I’d spent time in jungles before—once on a research expedition down the Amazon as a grad student, and onceon an archaeological dig in Costa Rica. But back then I was part of a team, working from established base camps. We had tents and cooks and fresh food trucked in.

I had none of that now. I had only myself.

The foliage was so thick I could hardly see the sky. It was like being in a huge terrarium. I was hacking my way through the underbrush with a machete, whacking branches and vines as thick as my wrist. Every strike sent up flakes of bark and a flurry of bugs. Most of them seemed to find their way into my ears and eyes.

I was marking my progress in yards, not miles. And before I knew it, it was dusk. I’d hoped to reach some kind of a village or outpost for shelter. At this point, even the kind of lean-to Kira and I built on the island would look pretty damned good. But I knew I couldn’t sleep on the ground. I’d be eaten alive by bugs, or something bigger.

I thought about climbing a tree, but I didn’t see any branches that would hold me and all my gear.

I took another swipe at the vines in front of me. Then I stopped. When I blinked the sweat out of my eyes, I thought I saw a rectangular shape poking out of the jungle about twenty yards ahead. Not natural. I thought my mind was just making it up.

I hacked my way a few yards closer. Nope. It was real. And man-made. As I pushed more branches aside, I could see a frame of rough timbers, grayed and rotted. It was the opening to what looked like a dark cave. Therewas a pile of rocks alongside and a post that held a metal sign dangling from a single rusted hook.

I could only translate one word on the sign, but it was enough.

Lucky me. I’d discovered a gold mine.

CHAPTER 83

I INCHED MY way through the opening, pistol raised. It had been a long time since anybody pulled a nugget out of this place. It was pitch-black inside and it smelled like cat piss. I couldn’t hear or see anything. I looked at the ground to see if there were any bones or feathers that would tell me it was a predator’s den. But at that point, I don’t think a pack of jackals would have scared me off. I was dead tired, and I needed to sleep.

I put down my weapons and wrestled a few loose timbers across the entrance, blocking it halfway up. That was to deter four-legged intruders. I stuffed rocks and dirt into the openings to keep out anything that crawled or slithered.

As I rested my backpack against the wall, I wondered how deep the mine went, and if anybody had ever gotten rich here. But I was in no mood to explore. I sat down and settled my head against my pack. I had a pistol inone hand and a machete in the other. I think I was a little delirious from the heat. As I drifted off, my mind started spinning with crazy thoughts and images—mostly about my ancestor.

I wondered how many of the Doc Savage adventures I’d read about had been true and how many had been fever dreams. Voodoo thugs, giant spiders, headless zombies—I knew I could conjure up any of those creatures right now, and they would feel absolutely real. I took a few deep breaths of the sour cave air, and I was out.

I don’t know how long I slept. But the instant I drifted back to consciousness, I sensed that I wasn’t alone. There was rustling overhead.