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chapter 21
Coastal region, Río Muni, Equatorial Guinea
It was midafternoon, and the sun hung low in the sky, adding threads of pink to the yellow-tinged horizon.
The area was razed into a wide sweeping circle of orange-red dirt that had been pushed into wandering mounds by machinery and tree trunks.
The ground was gutted by wide tire tracks, fat stumps were the last testament to arbor giants now fallen, and a border of lush green marked the periphery of the site.
Munroe kicked at a clod of dried clay, stared out over the expanse of barren ground,
then leaned against the vehicle door and watched Beyard in the near distance, where he stood by a loaded flatbed truck, conversing animatedly with the driver.
They had pushed since dawn to get this far, utilizing overgrown and unmarked tracks to speed the journey
and in the process of getting the vehicle through had added another layer of mud and bruises to those acquired the day before.
The conversation over, Beyard turned back, and when he drew close, Munroe said, “They’re making a hell of a mess out of this place.”
He followed her eyes. “I’ve been around it for so long I’ve become immune.” They stood in silence and stared at the wasted landscape,
and then he said, “It’s going to get worse. Pretty much all of the country’s commercially productive forest is under concession—
“if things keep going as they are, in five, six years it’ll be completely exhausted. Oil reserves won’t last either. What to do?”
He shrugged. “Fucking spoilers.” He climbed behind the wheel, and Munroe got into the front seat.
“We’re headed a half kilometer that way,” he said, pointing, “We should definitely get there before dark.”
They followed a rut-filled dirt road out of the site toward the west, and at an unmarked junction notable only as a break in the thick foliage Beyard turned north.
Munroe glanced at the backseat, where Bradford lay seemingly asleep with his arm draped over his head, and she shifted back to Beyard.
“I suppose you haven’t made out too badly through all this, spoilers and all.”
He threw her a look and then returned his focus to the road. “I do what I do.”
“So why the drugs, the munitions, the risks involved, when you do so well through legitimate business?”
“Because I’m good at it,” he said. “And I get an adrenaline rush.” He smiled.
“And don’t make the mistake of thinking this is legitimate. Legal, yes, but let’s not kid ourselves that it’s anything other than raping the country to feed the presidential coffers.”
“Do you care?”【】“I’m a realist, Vanessa. I don’t care, but I don’t lie to myself either.”
THE SECOND CUT site differed little from the first, with the exception of a few attempts at constructed shelter and a makeshift tin shack that sat on the edge of chaos.
Next to the tin was a six-wheeler with canvas raised over the back, and Beyard stopped beside it, got out of the vehicle, and banged his hand on the body of the truck.
The rear canvas parted, and a short, stocky man stood in the flap of the doorway.
His face lit up into a smile, and he held out a hand, which Beyard took and used to clamber into the truck.
Munroe waited in the silence, Bradford still stretched out on the backseat,
and a few minutes later Beyard returned and said, “Go on in. Manuel has everything you need.”
The interior of the truck was dark and dank and permeated with the smell of mildew and wood rot.
Along each side was an unmade cot, and the floor was littered with used dishes and discarded remnants of food.
At the front a small wooden table bolted to the floor held a smattering of electronics.
Manuel turned to Munroe and said in Fang, “The boss tells me you speak my language.”
Munroe nodded, and Manuel reached for a collapsible satellite dish.
“I have to put this up top,” he said, and then pointed to the phone. “The boss said you use whatever you want.”
Munroe waited for the sounds overhead to still and the truck’s engine to roll over,
and when the phone powered on, she reached for it, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. The next five minutes would change everything.
She drew another long drink of air and followed it with a slow expulsion, working backward into the frame of mind, conjuring horror and fear and becoming the part. And then she dialed.
When she stepped from the truck into the dimming light of the evening, most of their supplies were on the ground
and Beyard was on his back inside the vehicle with disassembled parts around him and twisting a bolt underneath the rear seat.
“How did it go?” he asked. His voice was muted by the pieces between them, and Munroe stepped closer.
“Only time will tell.”【】“So now what?”【】“Now we wait.” She paused and looked around. “Where’s Miles?”
Beyard threw a piece out on the ground, then knelt and peeled away the vehicle’s ersatz floorboard. “He took a walk.”
Munroe stepped into Beyard’s line of sight. “What exactly does that mean?”
“You tell me. He had a filled duffel bag and said he’d be back in the morning.
“I offered him the two-way in case we had to pull out before then. He declined, said it would be better for all parties concerned if he didn’t take it.”
“Did you do an inventory count?”【】Beyard nodded. “Two of the assault rifles, five hundred rounds, a few heavy pieces. And he took the sniper.”
“Shit, Francisco, the Vintorez was mine.” She paused, scratching the back of her head, and looked toward the trees in the near distance.
And then she turned in a complete circle, taking in the periphery, and shook her head; a slow smile crept across her face.
Bradford was on watch and determined to prove trustworthiness; he’d prepared to take out a military convoy if one showed up.
“He’s within four hundred meters,” she said, and then, turning her back to the forest, nodded at the truck.
“Is this home for the night?”【】“Yes. We’ll load now and head off first thing in the morning. Manuel will drive so we can stay out of sight.”
He stepped toward the vehicle in which they’d arrived, kicked a tire.
“I’m going to dump this thing in the forest away from the site,” he said. “I don’t want any of this coming back on any of my people. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Shouldn’t I come?”【】“If you’re up for the long walk back,” he said.
Then he smiled and hooked his finger into Munroe’s collar and pulled her close. “Even layered in two days’ worth of grime as you are, I find you irresistible.”
He paused and raised his eyes from her mouth to the forest behind her. “If I kiss you, do you think he’ll take a potshot?”
She leaned into him and brushed her lips against his. “I’m sure he’ll be tempted,” she said.
Then she grinned, stepped back, and opened the vehicle door.
She slid into the front seat. Beyard followed and cranked the engine.
AT FIVE IN the morning, Munroe was jolted out of a sleep she hadn’t intended to fall into.
The combined total of six hours of rest over three nights was taking a toll.
The interior of the truck was sightlessly black, but from Beyard’s breathing she knew he was awake.
She lay on the cot with headphones on her ears, and in an attempt to clear the fuzz that filled her head, she swung her legs to the floor and rested her elbows on her knees.
“Channels have opened up again,” she whispered. “Seems they’ve taken the bait.
“They’re sending most of their men back to wherever it was they came from and holding a large contingent around Mongomo.”
“We should probably get moving,” he said. “Try to get to the coast while our luck holds out.”
“What about Miles?”【】“He knows we’re leaving. I wouldn’t suggest waiting past dawn.”
Munroe sighed and lay back down. If Bradford didn’t arrive by first light, she would head out to look for him.
The option of leaving him behind had ended when the puzzle snapped into focus and she’d begun to formulate a plan for retribution.
She remained on the cot, dozing, until the sky changed from deepest black to navy blue and she knew the shift had come,
not from stepping outside but from an internal clock that through long experience had been synchronized to nature.
Across the aisle, Beyard took a deep breath and sat up. “Are you awake?”【】“Unfortunately.”【】“We need to get going.”
Manuel slept in the open outside the truck, on a rolled-out mat,
and while Beyard woke him and the two made preparations to depart, Munroe stared toward the forest and the brightening sky.
“Give me half an hour,” she said. “I want to see if I can find Miles. I really don’t want to leave without him.”
From the top of the truck, Bradford’s voice said, “There’s no need.”
Munroe opened the cab door, used the floorboard to step up and look over, and, seeing Bradford, said, “Shit, Miles, how long have you been up there?”
He smiled and said nothing, sat up and then ambled down with an AKM in one hand and the duffel bag dragging behind him.
Before the sun crested the horizon, they moved out of the site along the only road that led to Mbini.
Manuel was supplied with ample money for bribes, and if all else failed, they would fight their way through.
Inside the canvas, Munroe sat on a cot with the headphones to her ears, Beyard lay on the other, and Bradford sat on the floor with an assault rifle across his lap.
The heat and lack of air was stifling, and distance was measured by time, bumps, jolts, and continual gear shifting.
They had been moving for just under two hours when Munroe straightened and placed her fingertips to the headphones.
“How far to the coast?” she asked.【】“Forty-five minutes if we’re lucky,” Beyard said.
She stood and reached for a Kevlar vest. “It’s going to be close. They’ve been tipped off, and there’s a convoy moving down the coast out of Bata toward Mbini.”
She snapped magazines into pockets and tossed the remaining vest to Beyard.
“Sorry, Miles, we only brought two— got them before we knew you were coming with us.”
He nodded and patted the weapon on his lap. “Been through worse.”
The truck began to slow, and Munroe stood on the front table and with Beyard’s knife cut a hole in the canvas just above the metal frame.
There was a checkpoint ahead, the soldiers a ragtag group of four.
She signaled this to Beyard, and when the truck shuddered to a full stop, she positioned the weapon using the frame as a bipod and kept the unit leader in sight as he approached.
The conversation between the commander and Manuel began as light banter and shifted quickly in tone as the military man began to check the truck and Manuel offered pecuniary incentive to avoid it.
Two of the commander’s men walked toward the back, and Munroe gestured this to the others. Beyard and Bradford shifted position along the rear.
The voices at the front were raised, news out of Mongomo no doubt playing into the equation.
Munroe curled her index finger and rested it on the trigger; taking out the road patrol wasn’t ideal, but if that’s what was required to get to the coast, so be it.
Manuel passed a wad of cash out the window, and she paused.
The commander stared at it, hesitated, and took it. He called to his men, and moments later the truck started up.
Munroe remained on the table and watched the road and the stretches of landscape where the rain forest had long since been exploited and the terrain partially reclaimed by secondary forest.
She sniffed the air, could smell the salt, and knew they were getting close.
They turned off the road before entering the city proper, looped south toward the beach along a well-used track,
and stopped in a hard-packed clearing two hundred yards from the shore, where a small collection of houses stood abutting the ocean.
Rust-red rooftops were visible above the foliage, and from beyond the houses came the rumble of the water.
If the boat was ready, as it should be, five minutes was all that it would take to be gone from this place.
The truck stopped. Munroe threw the strap of a duffel bag over her shoulder and climbed into the sunlight.
Beyard circled to the front of the truck. He spent a moment in hushed conversation with Manuel, and Munroe caught snippets of hurried instructions.
Beyard handed the driver a thick pouch, and with a nod of assent Manuel slipped out of sight into the verdure.
With the driver gone, Beyard returned and placed the transponder and a key in Munroe’s palm.
“I need five minutes to swap out the plates,” he said. He pointed to a footpath from the parking area to a house on the perimeter.
“The extra fuel is inside. You’ll know the boat as soon as you see it. Can you ready her?”
“Leave it,” she said, and stood in his way, “It’s not worth it.”
“Essa, my life may be mine to gamble, but I won’t risk the lives of my people. I need to buy them time, and we need the boat readied— I can’t do both.”
He scooted behind her and planted a kiss on the nape of her neck. “Go.”
She stood for a second’s deliberation and then slapped the side of the truck. “Let’s go,” she said to Bradford.
He pulled what he could carry from the truck, and together they followed the path that Beyard had pointed out.
On the shore were several boats, one of them a paint-worn skiff differentiated from the others by the powerful outboard.
Munroe dumped the bag into the boat and looked back toward the trail.
From the shore she could see the top of the truck’s canvas and down the road the top of an antenna moving toward the truck.
She stood on the boat’s prow to get an extra three feet of height and caught a streak of black moving with the antenna.
Time slowed, her heart raced. She reached for the nearest weapon and, as her fist closed around it, took off running for the truck.
Each forward stride up the sand was an excruciating time-lapse drop into eternity.
Around a bend the clearing came into view. The internal war drum pounded, and the world faded to gray.
Beyond the truck were three black vehicles and, standing beside the truck, blocking Francisco, were nine men, heavily armed.
Francisco stood with his fingers laced behind his head, and to the right of him was the same commander who had nearly shot Munroe that night on the boat.
His sidearm was pointed at Francisco’s head. Francisco turned toward Munroe. Their eyes locked. He smiled.
And in the half second it took her to raise the rifle to her shoulder and take aim, the commander fired.
Pressure tore through Munroe’s head, claws ripping her skull open from the inside out. The air was empty of all oxygen.
She couldn’t breathe, and through eyes not her own she watched in slow motion as Francisco dropped to his knees and fell face-first into the dust.【】And then the world went black.
Every muscle, every fiber shrieked the command to get to him.
She lunged. Strong arms held her back. A hand was over her mouth.
Someone was screaming, the agony of a person burned alive, surreal and horrible, the howls, all of them coming from inside her head.
And then there was silence followed by words, calm words, reassuring, coming from her mouth.
And a hand, her hand, pulling herself from Bradford’s grasp and the other hand reaching for the silenced rifle and slamming the butt of it across Bradford’s face, knocking him to the ground.
On the other side of the truck, a soldier reached for Francisco’s body.
Through the scope, Munroe set the mark for the man’s forehead, let off a shot, and was gone from where she’d lain before the body crumpled on top of Francisco.
Touch him and die.
There was confusion now. Orders. Commands.
The others dropped and found cover, searched out the direction of the shot.
In the lapsed seconds of chaos, Munroe moved into the bush, silent, invisible, fast, the hunted now the hunter.
Two more of the enemy moved toward Francisco’s body. She fired two rounds that pierced body armor, then for good measure two more, each accurately aimed.
Touch him and die.
They knew this now, and their confusion segued to structure.
She searched the faces and uniforms for the commander; she would find him and take his life from him the way he had taken Francisco’s; nothing else mattered.
There was movement on the periphery. Shadows crept in the direction of where she’d left Bradford. The trail. The boat.
Munroe paused. Concentration shifted from the commander to the path and back again until the decision to keep the way clear was forced.
Each round let off a spit, found its mark, silenced, but in the stillness audible.
Gunfire returned in her direction; the bullets kicked dirt inches from where she lay.
She moved again, circled around, stopped on the edge of the clearing behind the truck, and began again to search out the commander.
There, only yards away, Francisco’s lifeless body watched with unseeing eyes, beckoned, and the world went silent.
Munroe crept toward him, oblivious to everything but the smile on his face and the power of his call.
There was a staccato of gunfire from the direction of the shore and a rain of bullets over her head that took down two men behind her.
She paused only to look back and then, feral and catlike, crouched again along the ground toward Francisco.
She reached for him, could almost touch him, and then in the bush, there across the clearing in the line of sight beyond her hand, was a ghost of movement.
She paused. Among those shadows was the commander, and he must die.
She drew away from Francisco and with patient relish cut off the commander’s escape by taking out the tires on each black vehicle.
And then, out of ammunition, she pulled the knife from Francisco’s belt, left the rifle beside his body, and returned to the edge of the clearing to wait.
In the silence, adrenaline flowed, and with the focus of each passing minute, bloodlust heightened.
Within the foliage across the clearing, shadows played against shadows until recognition formed: four of the enemy.
One mattered, and she would have him.
She moved again, tracked them through the bush, closed her eyes and listened to the whispers of the landscape.
Understood and smiled. They were circling, hunting for her.
She would play the game of cat and mouse, eliminate the three, and take him down alone.
To hide, to hunt along the damp and dim of the rain-forest floor, was familiar, natural.
The musk of living things permeated the air; it mixed with the inner cauldron of rage and fed the urge to strike, to kill.
The knife was warm, an extended part of her body, and she stalked with patience, creating diversion to draw gunfire and deplete ammunition until their weapons were useless.
And then, an apparition, she moved from the shadows long enough to kill before disappearing again.
Until there was only him. He was there, waiting; she could feel his eyes and the figment of his breath along her spine.
She was loud, careless, tempting as she moved through the bush, and then it came, the lunge from behind.
She twisted to avoid the impact of his knife and in one drawn-out movement brought Francisco’s blade across his neck.
She forced the commander to the ground and, with fingers clenched in his hair, held his head, pulled the knife from his hand, and plunged his own blade into his throat.
She jerked it around through tendon and veins, and when the crunch of his severed spinal column vibrated in her hand, the rush of euphoria flowed.
She continued until his head separated from his body, held it high in gratified triumph, rose to her feet, and, trailing blood and fluid, carried it out of the forest.
For a quiet moment, Munroe stood over Francisco, droplets staining the ground at her feet,
and then she struck out at the bodies that lay on him and near him, kicking in blind fury until he was free of the defilement of their touch.
She knelt over him, dripping a mixture of sweat and blood onto his body,
and in a picture of sacrificial offering placed the commander’s head in front of open eyes that stared lifelessly into nothing.
She reached for him, fingers shaking until they touched his forehead, pulled him close, cradled his shoulders, and closed his eyes.
Then lifted her head to the sky and screamed.
It was primal, pain and rage, fury and pain again.
Her body shook while tears that had not been shed for nearly a decade racked their way to the surface, and she buried her head in Francisco’s chest.
LIGHT CAME SLOWLY into the fog that was in her mind, awareness brought first by the sound of Bradford’s boots and then by his hand on her shoulder as he knelt beside her.
Munroe raised her face to look at him, saw the carnage that surrounded them and the commander’s head on the ground, and realized then for the first time what it was that she had done.
“We need to go,” Bradford said.
Munroe cradled Francisco and said, “I’m not leaving him.”
“Together we can carry him.”
BRADFORD STARED OVER the ocean, hand to rudder, and glanced at the coordinates on the transponder.
It had been three hours since they’d left the coast. They were running low on fuel, and as far as he could tell, there was nothing but ocean for miles to come.
He glanced at Munroe. She was seated between the benches, cross-legged, with Francisco in her arms and nothing but blankness on her face, the same as it had been since they’d shoved off from shore.
She looked up for a half second, met his gaze, then returned to Francisco,
and Bradford returned to the water, pushing back the crushing ache that came every time he stole a glance in her direction.
Nothing he’d read, none of the interviews he’d sat through in researching Munroe’s past, could have prepared him for what she’d done.
He understood now the fear others had described.
She had been brutally efficient, accurate, had wasted no movement, misspent no energy, and she was fast, terrifyingly fast.
Bradford checked the coordinates again and then the horizon and saw it there, very faint, a black blemish against the blue, and he understood what it meant.
He looked again at Munroe and then at Francisco and what little remained of his skull and the brain that had driven the genius of the man.
What a waste. What a goddamn fucking waste.
The vastness of the ocean was dizzying, and over time the ship loomed large on the horizon, until finally they reached its bulk and Bradford brought the boat alongside.
From the deck a crane swung over the water. Cables and sling lowered.
Munroe sat motionless and gave no indication that she was aware of being shipside.
Bradford knelt beside her and touched her hand; she looked up with such hollowness that it took his breath away.
And then the fog in her eyes cleared and she turned toward the trawler, then back to him and pointed and said, “Hooks go there.”
She bent over Francisco and kissed his forehead.
“When my enemies and foes came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though wars should rise against me, in this will I be confident…”
Her voice trailed from a mumble to silence, then she stood and went up the ladder on the side of the ship.
Bradford fought back the lump forming in his throat, moved quickly to secure the sling, grabbed an AKM, and followed her,
his foot touching the first rung of the ladder seconds after she went over the top.
There was a whir of motor as the deck crane began to hoist, and when the small boat was about eight feet out of the water, it stopped.
He moved faster, his feet finding a rhythm against the steel until he reached the deck and was hit by panic.
