The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (26 page)

Louis Makuza stood over the fallen FBI agent.  He lifted his panga high.  He would behead this worm of a spy.  A hand grabbed his arm.

“Louis, no!”

Louis turned.  The Hutu behind him he knew only as “Claude.”

“Why?”

“Jules Habimana is dead, shot.  Maximilien will want to question this man.”

“Where is the French cow?”

“We do not know.  We are searching for her.”

Louis frowned and sheathed his weapon.  Claude continued.

“Maximilien will let you have him after he is done.  Put him in the woman’s truck and take him to the shack behind the farm house.  Maximilien will ‘converse’ with him there.  But where are Patrice and Pierre?  They can help us move him.”

“Patrice is dead, killed in the explosion.  Guerry’s man escaped me.  I sent Pierre back to look for him.”

Claude grunted.

“All right, I’ll help you lift him in the truck. We must hurry.  Maximilien is not happy.”

At her room in Surf City, Jeannine Ryan settled into her bed.

At the celebration in Topsail Beach, she had not seen Bill, but she had watched that FBI jerk, Jack Marino, from a distance.  His evident anger told her that he had not captured Bill.  But that was the sole comfort of the evening.  The tests had been successful and one less obstacle remained to Gutera’s using his dirty bomb.

Jeannine was upset for another reason.  Were she and Bill still on the same page?  Recently, their relationship had been strained. She loved her work and he hated his, at least the “desk” part.  And Stew Marks’ infatuation flattered her.

The last thought was only momentary.  Bill had not met her at the deli as planned. Where was he?

She leaned back on her pillow and stared at the ceiling.

Bill, Are you all right?

At the Smets farm, Denise Guerry leaned her head on Bill’s shoulder.

Why do I trust this man?  But I do.  I can depend on him.

Such feelings were strange to her.  She could not handle them.  She shook her head clear.

No, I can’t.

Bill leaned over her.

“Are you all right?  Can you get up?”

She opened her good eye.  His were kind.

Damn it Denise, get a grip on yourself.

He touched her arm.

“Denise, we need to go.”

She nodded.  He lifted her to her feet.  Gripping his hand, she stumbled into the dark pines.  Behind them the lights and cries of Maximilien’s searchers had moved away, in the direction of the road.

Bill guided her through the woods that bordered the fields at the rear of the house.

Her head spun.  She trusted no one, least of all a man.  And this man is the enemy.

But I do trust him.

Her head spun anew.

Denise, stop.  You are a fool!

She slipped on the pine needles underfoot.

His strong arm steadied her.

Hmmmm!

The sound of a motor interrupted Denise Guerry’s thoughts.  She stopped.

“Bill, what’s that noise?”

“It sounds like your pickup truck.”

He disappeared through the pines to her left.  Moments later he returned.

“It
was
your truck.  Gutera’s men had someone in the back.  They threw him in the old shack.  Whoever he is, I wouldn’t want to be him.”

After Jules Habimana’s savagery, Denise was ready to change alliances.  Her rescuer deserved the truth.  Her voice was low.

“It’s that FBI man, Stewart Marks.  He followed us.  I asked Gutera to stop him.”

Bill’s eyes hardened.

“What!”

“I’m sorry.”

Denise surprised herself.  She wanted to please this man, to have his respect, sentiments new to her.  She swallowed and spoke slowly.

“I was wrong.  It was all so abstract, supporting Gutera.  Uncle Roland liked him, so did his wife.  They raised me and they own half the company.  They told me that Maximilien was a refugee, that he was persecuted.”

She lowered her eyes and stammered.

“It was like a game to me.  I wanted to win.”

Bill stared.  She kept on.

“My God.  Maximilien and his men are not human.  They are monsters.  I cannot help them anymore.”

She looked at Bill.

“What will they do to Marks?”

But she knew the answer.  She spoke before he could.

“Bill, we have to help him.”

Bill continued to stare.

A scream pierced their ears.  It came from the old shack

Bill Hamm hefted the Beretta.  Judging from its weight, only several rounds remained.  He looked at Denise.  She clung to her Browning Hi Power.

“I’ll cover you Bill.  I have thirteen rounds, and I don’t miss.”

He nodded and pulled her to her feet.  Adrenalin surged and she stood erect.

“I’m ready.”

Bill moved quickly to the edge of the woods.  She struggled after.

They looked out from the cover of the pines.  Three men stood outside the shack.  Suddenly a group burst from inside.  The leader was a large man.  He strode to a car parked at the rear of the farm house followed by three others.  He paused, illuminated by the light next to the door.

Denise whispered.

“The big one, that’s Gutera.”

The big man stepped into his Audi.  The three men followed.  Denise recognized the one who sat in back with his chief.

“The one next to Gutera is called Claude, Claude Senteli.”

She added.

“And the driver is Pierre Sehene, an electrical engineer.  I don’t know the other one.  His name might be Alain.”

The Audi roared away.

Bill looked at Denise.  Their odds had improved, but three men remained in front of the shack in which Marks was held.  Had he survived the interrogation?

He had to act now.

Gun drawn, he signaled Denise to follow, and rushed through the weeds towards the shack.

Surprised at the sight of two individuals running at him, Louis Makuza stepped into the shack.  He would finish his victim.  The others could deal with those foolish attackers.

Louis looked in the corner where Maximilien had interrogated the captive.  The FBI man was no longer there. 
Where?

Louis stepped to the other side of the shack.

Just in time.  Several rounds penetrated the boards of the shack where he had stood.

Louis heard a rustling.  There, the man was huddling in the far corner. Louis paused to listen.  The shooting outside the shack had ceased.  Good, he would not be interrupted.  He raised the panga high, for a two-handed stroke.

His last conscious act.

Crack!

The panga clattered to the floor.  A split second later, Louis Makuza fell dead on the worn planks.

In the door stood Denise Guerry her Browning in her hand.  A gray curl of smoke drifted upwards from the aperture of the gun.  Exhausted, she collapsed and sat with her back against the door frame.

Outside, Bill Hamm examined the AK-47 by the man he had shot.  The weapon had jammed. He sighed.

Better to be lucky than good!

But it was not luck that had killed the other Hutu who lay dead among the weeds.  Blood oozed from his forehead.  Denise was as accurate as she had claimed.

Bill went to the door and pulled her to her feet.

Together they peered into the shack.

In the Audi a few miles away, Maximilien Gutera was furious.  The “relaxing” evening at the farm had been a disaster.

A fatalist, he counted his losses.  Patrice had been killed in the gas-tank explosion.  Far worse, his trusted right hand, Jules Habimana was dead, killed by that bitch and former ally, Denise Guerry.

He shifted to the present.  The two men with him were skilled warriors.  Of the two, Claude Senteli was more knowledgeable.  He would replace Jules as Maximilien’s right hand.

The third man, the driver, Pierre Sehene, had been a “chopper” as a boy in the Interahamwe.  Now trained in electronics, he could prove useful.

And back at the farm the ever-loyal Louis Makuza would finish that meddling FBI agent.  When Maximilien had found that Marks had discovered the farm on his own and without backup, he had lost interest in the agent.  Louis would slash and cut him until he bled out.

As to Denise Guerry and Hamm, Louis and the other Hutus still at the farm would dispatch them too.

Satisfied with his analysis, Maximilien relaxed.  He was in control once more.  He spoke to his driver.

“Pierre, take us to Charleston!”

At the farm, Bill helped the ailing Stewart Marks to the house.  The latter opened his eyes.

“Is that you, Hamm?”

“It is, but you don’t need to talk.  I’m going to reset your shoulder.  Maximilien’s men jerked it out of the socket.  It’s dislocated.”

“But?”

Bill stuffed a rag into Stew’s mouth.

“Quiet.  Bite on this.  I’m going to pull.  Denise, hold him down.”

Stew did not scream, but his teeth cut through the cloth and into his gums.  He groaned.  Blood appeared on his lips.  Then his eyes closed and he fell back, unconscious.

Denise looked at Bill.

“You realize that when he comes to, he’ll arrest you, or try to.”

He studied her eyes. 
She’s concerned. Is this for real?

“I can’t leave him alone.  Gutera may come back.”

She touched his arm.

“Trust me, Bill.  Gutera will not return.  This farm belongs to GES.  No, he has gone to Charleston to meet his ship, the
Étoile d’Afrique
.  Agent Marks will be safe here.”

“Then I’m going to Charleston to stop Gutera and his dirty bombs.”

He glanced sideways at her.

“Your dirty bombs.”

She flushed.  All at once a Congo contaminated by radioactivity was real, not abstract.

Children and old people would vomit and die. 
What’s wrong with me?  Why do I care?

She recalled Jules’ savagery. 
This is no game.  It is real.  This American is real. 
She found her voice.

“Bill, let me come with you.  I may be able to help you stop Gutera.  Let me try.”

Bill swallowed. 
This is crazy.
 
This woman is dangerous.

But she looked up, blue eyes misted.

“Bill, I have to try.”

He was stunned to hear his own words.

“All right, Denise, I’ll trust you.”

They lifted Stew Marks on the living room couch.  Denise fashioned a pillow under his head.

Then they left the farm in the GES pickup.

She rested her head on his shoulder as he drove.

In her room in Surf City, Jeannine tossed in her sleep.  She sat up, half awake.

Bill!  Where?  Are you all right?

But something was not right!

Bill?

Seated in the back of his Audi on Interstate 95, Maximilien Gutera was troubled.  Louis Makuza had not answered his calls.

Something was wrong!

And the French cow, Denise Guerry, could pose a problem.  He still needed the cooperation of SÉGAG, her family’s parent company in France, at least until the French vessel
La Lutte
off-loaded the radioactive modules onto the
Étoile d’Afrique
.  After that his Hutus would be in full control.

Had a lone man and a weak woman defeated the men he had left at the farm?  Was Denise now the enemy?

Maximilien considered his options.  Denise’s influence with SÉGAG was not unlimited.  Her uncle Roland was subject to political forces in France that would object to any attempt to halt SÉGAG’s support of Hutu Power.  Denise might possibly prevail, but only in days, not hours.

The transfer of the radioactive modules at sea was to take place on Monday the tenth.  Maximilien did not hesitate.

He made two phone calls off-shore, one each to the
Étoile d’Afrique
and the ship
La Lutte
.  Then he called the North Charleston Terminal.  In less than an hour the matter was settled.

The captain had agreed to dock the
Étoile d’Afrique
in North Charleston on Thursday Evening, more than a day early.  The port superintendent, suitably bribed, would obtain the necessary clearances from the authorities so that the containers with the rockets would be loaded immediately.  The ship would remain in port overnight and depart Friday morning to rendezvous with
La Lutte
at noon on Saturday.  The transfer at sea would take place two days ahead of schedule.