The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (25 page)

It was only to appease his French sponsors that the tests at Topsail Beach were being held.  He had resolved to proceed no matter their outcome.  He was in North Carolina solely to show his sponsors that he was “serious.”

He sipped his expensive Bordeaux, leaned back in his chair, and sent puff after puff from his cigar to the ceiling. He opened his eyes as his phone chimed.  Jules Habimana answered.

“It’s Mademoiselle Guerry, do you wish to speak with her?”

Maximilien seized the instrument and listened briefly.  He returned the instrument to Jules.

“Someone is following Mlle. Guerry.  She would like us to rid her of him.  Post two men with AK-47’s out of sight across the road from our entrance.  She is driving a gray GES pickup truck.  They are to let her pass and to stop whoever follows.”

He yawned.

“Take Louis Makuza with you and wait by the old tractor on the left under the trees.  You will welcome Mlle. Guerry.  Keep my phone.  She will call you before she arrives.”

He emptied his glass and leaned back in his chair.  Once again gray puffs floated upwards in vague spirals.

Jules left to find Louis Makuza.

The sun was low in the West.  Stew Marks focused on the gray GES pickup ahead of him and its driver, Denise Guerry. 
Where is she going?  We’ll soon be in Wilmington.

Stew checked the gauge on the dash. 
Half a tank.  OK.

He looked up to see the pickup skid, wheels-locked, across the sandy median to land in the other lane in the opposite direction.  Then motor roaring and wheels spinning, it sped back the way it had come.

Stew hit the brakes to cross the median, but his turn was slow.  His wheels slowed in the sandy soil.  Finally they reached the hard surface and he started after the gray pickup, barely visible ahead.

Denise was retracing her steps, but why?

No matter, Bill Hamm was in that pickup.

Stew had no choice but to follow.

At Topsail Beach, Bruno Belli sat back and relaxed for the first time in 48 hours.  The tests were successful.  The rockets had exploded as planned over the target areas, and the flight data had been recorded with only one hitch, a few records from a non-critical part of the flight were lost due to a buffer overflow.

Bruno, called Denise Guerry.  The planners in Paris would be happy.  She should notify them.  Her phone rang, but she did not pick up.
Strange!

He hesitated to leave a message.  It would be better to try again in a few minutes.  He waited and tried once more.

Again, no answer.

Bruno was puzzled.  Denise had insisted that he notify her immediately with the results of the tests.  Paris was waiting.

He tried again.  No Denise.

Outside, a boisterous group was celebrating around a keg of beer.  Bruno spotted an attractive technician with a frothy mug in her hand.  She smiled as he joined her.  He stopped worrying.

At the “Smets” farm, It was dark when Denise Guerry brought the pickup to a halt near the rusted tractor.  Jules Habimana stood tall and smiled while at his side Louis Makuza, panga in hand, stared impassively.

Jules smiled with an effort.  He was sick of this domineering woman.  His chief tolerated her only because he needed his French backers.  If the French wished to bow down to weak women, Maximilien (and Jules) would accommodate them, but only for a time, and from necessity.

Jules’ consolation was that in a few days the radioactive modules would be transferred from the French ship
La Lutte
to the
Étoile d’Afrique
.  After that, Maximilien’s Hutus would be in control of the weapons and their own destiny.  And once the dirty bombs had exploded over the eastern Congo, their French friends would have no choice but to condemn Rwanda and back Maximilien’s bid for power.  They could not back out without losing face.

Denise stepped from the pickup.

“Where is Maximilien?”

“He will be available soon.  I am to serve your needs.”

Denise looked at Louis Makuza and saw the panga.

“Tell him to put that bush knife away.”

Jules nodded to his aide who obeyed and stepped back.  Denise spoke.

“Jules, I have someone with me.  His name is Hamm.  He will be joining me at GES.  You are not to harm him, understood.”

Jules stared as Bill Hamm, his eyes glazed, stepped out of the pickup.  Jules had heard of this dangerous man.

He turned back to Denise.

“As you wish.  Now, please hand me your Browning and that cell phone.  Maximilien does not allow such things in his presence.”

Denise complied.  But something in Jules’ manner disturbed her.  She was thankful that Ian Callahan’s Beretta was stuffed in the back of her jeans.  She waved for Bill to join her.

But Jules intervened.

“No. he cannot see the chief.  He must wait here with Louis.”

Simultaneously, Jules winked and motioned Louis to withdraw his panga from its sheath.

Denise started to protest, but stopped at the sound of gun fire from the direction of the entrance hundreds of meters away.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup..., BrBrup.”

Jules paused and listened as more automatic fire erupted.

“BrBrup, ..., Brup, ..., Brup.”

Then silence.

He smiled.  The last four rounds doubtless had been insurance.  Maximilien’s trap had worked.

Jules seized Denise’s arm and pulled her towards the farm house.

In the darkness, Stew Marks lay on the ground on the driver’s side of his bullet-riddled Accord. 
What happened? Who ambushed me?

He smelled gas behind him.  The gas tank had been hit.  He needed to get away from the car.  He crawled into the bushes at the side of the road.

Just in time.

Flames erupted from the rear of the vehicle.  They lit the landscape, momentarily silhouetting two dark figures against the glare.  Each carried a weapon with a long curved magazine, AK-47’s.  Stew flattened himself further. 
What the hell?  Who are these people?

The flames reached the gas tank.

The rear of the car exploded sending metal flying on all sides.  An orange ball of fire soared skywards.  The shock wave rolled Stew further into the brambles, and sent one of the dark figures airborne, his weapon spinning away.

The figure crashed in a heap of bones and flesh onto the roadway, not far from Stew.

Stew waited.  The lumped torso did not move.  Stew crawled forward through the bushes, feeling his way with his hands.

His fingers touched the AK-47. 
Good!
  Stew, still prone, felt the magazine.  It was bent and twisted.  The weapon was useless.  Stew laid it aside and drew his Beretta from its holster.

From the other side of the roadway someone shouted in a strange language.

Stew lay motionless and waited.

Jules Habimana was on the porch of the farm house when the explosion sounded.  He pulled Denise to the door.

“Maximilien has rid you of your pursuer, and his car.  You should be grateful.”

“I am.  But you are not he.  Now let go my arm and never touch me again,
sale
cochon
, ‘dirty pig.’”

The last epithet was too much for Jules.  Soon they would no longer need this woman.  He punched her face, full force.  She flew sideways.  Her back slammed against a post and she fell in a twisted heap on the porch.

He kicked her thigh.  There was no response.

Jules exhaled.  He had waited for this moment.  He hissed through his teeth.

“Bitch, you will respect us.  We are Hutu.  Save your haughty airs for your own countrymen.”

He grabbed her torso and tore her chemise to expose her chest.

“You serve us, not we you.  Now, Maximilien will decide if you are still useful.  If not, you will serve every man here and I will be the first.”

But Jules could not wait.  She was helpless and he was the master.  He would subdue her with pain.  Then he would work his will on her.

He pulled her upright and reached for her exposed breast.  He would twist until she screamed.

His hand never touched flesh.  Something metal pressed against his abdomen. 
A gun?  I took it from her.  No! 
He heard and felt a muffled crack.  His body was pushed backwards, away from the pressing metal. 
You French bitch!

He tried to grasp her throat.  Now he would strangle her.

But she had stepped back beyond his grip.

Ian’s Beretta was not muffled now.

“Crack!”

Another hole appeared in Jules’ chest.  His heart, pierced, stopped.

Still again.

“Crack!”

A hole formed in his forehead.

Dead, Jules fell backwards off the porch.

Denise, still gripping the Beretta, slumped down.

Her eyes closed.  She lost consciousness.

For the first time since Ian’s head butt, Bill Hamm’s mind was clear.  He had watched as the African called “Jules” pulled Denise away with him.  More to the point he had caught Jules’ wink to Louis Makuza.

Bill did not wait for Louis to unsheathe his panga, but dove backwards behind the tractor.  Pointed holly leaves tore at his shirt and arms as he scrambled through the stiff brush.  He rolled on the ground.  He heard the swish of chopped branches falling as his pursuer cut a path towards him.

There was little moon light.  In a dark recess between two large pines, Bill hunched and waited.

In the distance someone shouted.  Bill heard twigs crack and branches rustle in the direction of the shout.  Apparently the call was a summons.  Louis had gone.

Bill exhaled and waited.  Then he crept back towards the rusty tractor.

Ahead, a lone light shone from the porch of the farm house.

There were no voices.

No sounds came from the house.

Stew Marks lay on the ground by the side of the road.  Behind him, the frame of the Accord smoldered.  Scattered flames persisted, but their light could not penetrate the dark bushes.

With his Beretta ready, he crawled towards the entrance lane.

“Snap!”

The sound came from across the road.  Someone had stepped on a twig.

Stew froze.

Moments passed.  Nothing.

He resumed his crawl towards the entranceway.  His elbow pushed against a dead branch.  Leaves rustled.

A voice whispered from across the road.

“Patrice, is that you?”

Stew hugged the ground.

Bill Hamm stood by the abandoned tractor and peered at the porch.  Under the light he made out the motionless form of Denise Guerry.  He could not see her face, but he knew her chemise and jeans.

On the ground near the porch steps sprawled the body of a man, Jules.  Even in the shadows away from the porch light, Bill knew he was dead.  The awkward angles of neck and limbs confirmed that.

Bill dashed across the open space to the porch and knelt.

“Denise, wake up.  We need to get out of here.”

He lifted her head, one eye opened.  The other was dark and swollen.

“You?”

“Yes, me.  Can you stand?”

“Where is Jules?  He has my Browning and the phone?”

“You finished him. He’s dead.”

“Bon!  The bastard.”

She groaned, but rose to her knees, pulling her chemise together.  He lifted her by the waist.  She leaned against the wall and shoved the Beretta into his hand.

“Take this.  Now get me my gun.”

Bill helped her off the porch and leaned over the sprawled corpse.  He handed her the Browning and pocketed her phone.

She clung to his shoulder.  He held her waist and they stumbled through the yard to the old tractor at the edge of the pines.  She collapsed next to the hunk of rusted metal.  Bill pulled her behind it.  She gripped his arm, her head on his shoulder.  They huddled out of sight of the house.

Just in time.

Maximilien Gutera roared from inside.

“Claude, Alain, go find Jules?  Damn him.  He should have reported by now!”

Footsteps resounded on the porch, followed by cries of dismay and anger.

“Jules is shot!  Jules is dead!”

More men came out of the house.

Beams of spotlights crisscrossed the grounds.

At the entrance to the farm, Stew Marks lay behind a Holly and peered into the shadows.  There was no gate and as far as he could see no house, at least no lights shone from that direction.

For some minutes now, Stew had heard nothing from across the road.  He decided to move.  To his right was a thicket of Sassafras.  He would crawl there.

He held the Beretta ready and shifted his weight onto his left elbow.

“Snap!”

The broken twig was directly behind him.  Stew tried to turn, but before he could the butt end of the bush knife crashed against his skull.

He blacked out.