Samurai Game (Ghostwalkers, #10)(119)
They set out fast, putting distance between the dead rebels and them, making good time as the night began to approach. Ryland called a halt and signaled to Kadan to find a good hide for a few hours’ sleep. They needed rest and food before they moved on.
Sam resisted the urge to use the radio just to hear Azami’s voice. The rain refused to slow down, pouring down as if trying to flood the area. Small rivulets ran all around them. They had to watch each other for leeches, removing them in stoic silence. They took turns sleeping and guarding for four hours before starting out again. The quick catnap helped take the edge off.
Moving at night was slow, but moving during the day was far more dangerous. They had too long of a way to travel to engage with the rebels too many times. Kadan abruptly stopped as the sun came up, signaling to hold. The GhostWalkers dropped to their knee and waited.
We’ve got a fairly well traveled road here, Rye, Kadan reported. We might pick up a vehicle if we keep close to it.
Ryland considered the risks before he agreed. The distance to Matadi without picking up transportation would take too many days to walk and they were going to get lucky only if they were close to a road.
Let’s stay close.
They didn’t have long to wait until they heard the faint sound of an engine chugging toward them. Quickly they set up an ambush. As the rusty old pickup came into sight, Gator stumbled out onto the road, babbling, arguing with himself in his Cajun accent, seemingly oblivious to the truck. The truck lurched to a halt, four rebels spilling out, shouting at Gator and gesturing with guns. When he continued to babble, they looked at one another and one went up to him to deliver a blow into his midsection. The others spit on him. One punched and another kicked him as he went down. Engrossed in beating up the clearly insane idiot, none of them noticed the GhostWalkers slipping up behind them.
Gator’s eyes cleared. From the ground he gave them a wicked grin and wiggled his fingers. “Bye-bye, boys,” he said. “Been fun knowin’ ya.”
Four knives slit throats, and Sam reached down to help Gator as the bodies were removed from the road. “You all right?”
“Yeah. Next time you can be the insane guy.”
Sam grinned at him. “Do I look crazy to you? You’re so good at it.”
“Get in the truck,” Ryland called.
There were risks out in the open on the road, but it was far faster than “breaking brush”—walking in the jungle. As Kyle floored it, pushing the speed to cover miles, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Every mile passing was a mile closer to going home to Azami. For the first time in his life he actually had a reason to go home.
They stayed as alert as possible with the pits in the road jarring them every few minutes. The rain fell in the same endless gray sheets, obscuring vision. At times the bald tires slid in the mud, sending them slamming into each other. They were packed like sardines in the back, but they weren’t walking.
Three hours later, as they hit the top of a hill, the radiator began to steam and the engine abruptly seized.
“Okay, boys,” Ryland said. “Time to put the LPCs back to use.”
The men groaned and lifted their leather personal carriers out of the truck. Ryland laughed at them. “Too much good living. You’re all turning into pansies. The truck saved us over a hundred miles of walking and a few days on top of that, so stop your bellyaching. We’ve got twenty-three miles until we get to Matadi. Let’s get this sorry ass truck pushed over the edge so it looks like the abandoned wreck that it is. We need to get out of sight and make certain nobody saw us arrive.”
After ascertaining they hadn’t been spotted, they traveled twenty klicks from the truck, set up security, and settled in to wait for nightfall.
*
Duncan Forbes sank into his favorite seat at his favorite pub. “Whiskey.” He needed it. And he had a damn good reason to celebrate. Everything had gone to hell in the Congo, but he’d gotten out alive and he’d had his revenge on the f*ckers. Who did they think they were, anyway? They’d treated him like dog shit. “Elite, my ass,” he said aloud. Yeah, they were so damned elite that they were going to die in that jungle, hopefully tortured by those equally idiotic rebels.
“Make that two,” General Fielding said and slid his butt into the seat across from Forbes. He smiled at the woman seated at the bar. A pretty little thing. Delicate. Asian. The little cap of jet black hair was intriguing around her fragile face. She had the longest lashes he’d ever seen. Her lips were . . .
“You’re staring,” Forbes said with a tight laugh. “She’s probably on the clock.”
“I can find out after we have our drink. It was a long flight to Washington.” He glanced again at the woman, catching her eye. This time she smiled. “I wish I was in uniform, but that always attracts undo attention. Women, however, fall all over me when I’m wearing it.” He turned his head and suddenly he was all business, looking like the commander he was. “What the hell went wrong out there? I don’t like leaving my soldiers behind.”
“Sacrifices have to be made, General. If we’re going to have a strong military, we need the right people leading,” Forbes said. “These men not only blew a multimillion-dollar project, but more important, they blew months of negotiations. If the president gets those mines back, we won’t have access to what we need for the weapon. He’s not going to be so easy to deal with as a bunch of hotheaded rebels with no real agenda.”