The Taste of Fear (33 page)

It didn’t.

This time it came at him low, going for the legs. There was nothing he could do to block or avoid the attack. If he rolled left or right the leopard would correct its course and pounce. It was much more agile than he was.

So he did the unexpected: he charged. The leopard, surprised, sprang off its feet, intent on coming down on top of its prey, the way a housecat does when toying with a mouse.

Fitzgerald shoved the machete as far as it would go into the leopard’s exposed underside, somewhere near the heart, just as the cat knocked him over with its nearly two-hundred-pound frame. The leopard began swatting his head with its paws.

Everything went black. Fitzgerald wasn’t sure if he passed out for seconds or minutes, but when his vision cleared, the leopard was collapsed on top of him, unmoving. The pungent, gamey smell of the beast filled his nostrils. He tried to shove the animal off him, but it was a halfhearted effort. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere. His eyes fluttered, then closed.

It was time.

Fitzgerald’s life did not pass before his eyes. History did. The history of warfare, what he’d dedicated the good part of the last decade to understanding. Wars and more wars and more wars, death and blood and suffering, the human condition. Something by Plato drifted through his dying thoughts:
Only the dead have seen the end of war.

Darkness did not rise to greet him, only white light. White light that grew brighter and brighter, and in that brightness he saw the faces of Eryn and Biddy.

Damien Fitzgerald greeted death with a smile.

She knew he was right. There would be time to rest later. She nodded.

“This is the plan,” he went on. “We head upriver along the bank for an hour or so. Try to cover a couple of kilometers. If we don’t find the boat, then we work out somewhere to sleep and backtrack the way we came in the morning. When we see that”—he pointed to a sixty-foot single-stemmed marula with a spreading crown—“we know we’re back where we started. We continue for another couple kilometers downriver. In total that gives us almost four Ks along the bank.”

“And if we still don’t find the boat?”

“We work out a new plan.”

He held out his hand for her. She took it, pulling herself to her feet. Her legs were still mush, but she could stand on her own. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and it was now near dark. If they had still been in the jungle, they wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. But since there was no canopy of branches spanning the river, the sky was visible, the moon and stars bright enough for them to navigate the river’s vegetation.

They’d only been walking for a few minutes when Thunder stopped abruptly. Scarlett looked up from the marshy ground, thinking: leopard. What she saw turned her insides to gold. Because there it was, cast in the ethereal light of the moon and just visible through the overhanging branches of a mangrove tree.

The riverboat.

Scarlett turned to Thunder for confirmation she wasn’t imagining it. He grinned broadly at her. Unless they’d both checked into the state lunatic hospital at the same time, it was really there. She threw her arms around him and mumbled something, just nonsense, into his shoulder.

Thunder stepped apart. “I’m going to check it out. To make sure it’s clear. I’ll be back in a flash.”

She frowned. “Clear?”

“I know the Irish bloke said he took out the other two terrorists, but he’s not exactly the most reliable source, is he?”

Scarlett felt a fresh jab of fear. “I’m coming with you,” she said immediately, and before he could reply, she added, “Think about it, Thunder. If anybody’s there, and they kill you, then I’m dead anyway. What am I going to do out here by myself?”

He thought that over, then nodded reluctantly.

“Stay close,” he told her. “And keep your eyes peeled.”

They started forward side by side and came to the same muddy bank they’d climbed only the morning before. They slid down it, waded through the murky, smelly water, and pulled themselves up onto the stern deck. Thunder pointed to the main cabin. Scarlett nodded. They went to the window, peered inside. Empty. Thunder pointed to the top deck. Another nod.

They climbed the spiral staircase and poked their heads through the well-hole. The deck and pilothouse were deserted. Thunder held up his hand, palm forward, indicating he wanted her to wait where she was. He hurried over to the aft cabin and looked inside. He turned back to her and made the thumbs-up sign.

“All ours, captain,” he said.

Scarlett snapped open her eyes. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

She was lying in the hammock in the aft cabin. Thunder was on the floor next to her, using an old blanket he’d found as a pillow. Earlier, they’d known they couldn’t navigate the river in the dark—it would be disastrous if they got beached on a sandbar or hit rocks—so they’d decided to get some rest and start out at first light.

Thunder, who must have been sleeping just as lightly as her, said, “Hear what?” His voice was quiet but alert.

“A splash.”

They listened in silence. The only noise was the patter of rain and the continuous drone of insects.

“Maybe it was a frog?” Thunder said.

“It sounded bigger.”

“A croc?”

“Maybe.”

“What else could it be?”

“We don’t know for certain that Danny was killed. Or the Irishman, for that matter.”

Thunder shook his head. “They’re dead.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You heard Danny.”

“Fine, yes,” she agreed. “But what about the Irishman? We didn’t hear him make a sound. Maybe he got away?”

“You saw him while we were walking through the jungle. He was on his last legs. I don’t know how he even made it as far as he did. That’s why he went off after the leopard, I reckon. He knew he was a goner. He wanted to die on his terms—”

Scarlett heard another splash.

“There!” she said, still whispering. “Did you hear that?”

This time Thunder nodded. He got silently to his feet and looked around the cabin. He picked up the sack of fruit from which they’d eaten earlier.

“What are you doing with that?” she said.

“I need a weapon.”

“Fruit?”

“See anything else?”

The door was open a crack. Thunder pushed it open farther. A gust of cool, swampy air swept inside. Thunder went out first, Scarlett on his heels. The rain had picked up again sometime during the night and it drenched them within seconds. They went to the portside railing, which faced the north bank of the river, and scanned the water below. It was midnight black and pockmarked by the falling raindrops, but otherwise undisturbed.

“I don’t see anything,” Thunder said.

Scarlett went to the starboard railing and peered over. Nothing. She returned to Thunder. “Maybe it was just a frog or crocodile after all.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Guess I overreacted. It’s just that after everything—”

“No worries. I understand. Let’s just get back inside. We stay out here any longer, we’re going to catch pneumonia.”

Scarlett nodded. At the cabin door, however, she glanced back over her shoulder one last time—and her heart seemed to stop in her chest. Sticking up through the well-hole in the deck was the silhouetted shape of a head. In a silent flash of lightning she saw the face clearly, scarred, disfigured, horrible.

It was the face of a monster.

It was Jahja.

“And if we shoot you,” Thunder said, “you’re supposed to bloody well die.”

Jahja leveled the gun at him. “Cute, Mr. Young. However, the time for talk is over. Set the sack in your hand down and open the door to the cabin. Wide.”

Thunder looked at Scarlett. She didn’t know what to tell him.

“She cannot help you, Mr. Young,” Jahja said. “Do as I say. I do not have much patience right now.”

Thunder dropped the fruit and pulled the door open.

“Very good. Now untie that rope supporting the hammock. Don’t get any ideas. If I see you make any move for a weapon, I will shoot you both.”

Thunder entered the cabin and untied the knot attached to the canvas hammock. The end closest to him dropped to the floor. He undid the anchor point secured to the rafters, then came back outside, carrying the six-foot-long piece of braided rope.

“Thank you,” Jahja said. “Now throw it to me.”

Thunder did what was asked of him. Jahja caught the rope with his free hand. He lowered the rifle, took a knife from his belt, and began to cut the rope into thirds. Scarlett saw the window of opportunity and thought about rushing him. But she was 120 pounds, maybe 123 with her clothes on and wet as they were, and she couldn’t see herself doing much damage. Not to mention he was still a good fifteen feet away—more than enough time to raise the rifle and blow her guts out across the deck. He finished up and lobbed one section to her.

“Now would you be so kind as to tie Mr. Young’s wrists behind his back?” Jahja told her. “Tightly. I will be checking your handiwork.”

Scarlett’s mind raced for another option, but there weren’t many when you had a gun trained on you. She reluctantly tied Thunder’s wrists behind his back.

Jahja came over, gave the knot she’d made a solid tug, and smiled. “Very good, Miss Cox. Now turn around yourself.”

She did as she was told and felt the rope loop around her wrists three times before biting painfully into her skin. “Why are you doing this?” she said. “Everybody is dead. It’s over.”

“It’s far from over, Miss Cox. Do you think Al Qaeda’s plans or resolve have changed just because we have lost a few men? We have thousands more lining up to die as true
mujahedin
on Allah’s path.”

“What are you going to do with us?”

“I think you know the answer to that—” he trailed off, breaking into his worst fit of coughing yet. He wiped his bloody lips with the back of his hand, wiped his hand on his tunic. He marched them down the stairs to the main deck, where he opened the door to the cabin and ordered them inside.

“Listen, mate,” Thunder said. “Take the boat, but let us go. That helicopter that crashed into the church was our ride. When it doesn’t report back tonight, more reinforcements are going to be sent out. They’ll be here tomorrow. They’ll find us.”

Jahja shook his head. “You underestimate the size of the Congo, Mr. Young. There are literally hundreds of tributaries off this river alone. If we go farther downriver, we’ll reach the Lualaba, the greatest headstream of the Congo River, which itself is the second-longest river in Africa, after the Nile.” He smiled humorlessly. “So you see, there are plenty of places to go. No one is going to find us. I can assure you of that.”

He closed the door and locked it.

“Bloody hell,” Thunder said. “We’re right back where we started.”

Scarlett went to the stern window. She didn’t see Jahja, which meant he’d gone back to the top deck. “I’m not going through this again. No way. Not in a thousand years. I can’t. I simply can’t. We have to escape. Right now.”

“I’m with you there, one hundred percent, but how?”

She wriggled her wrists. No give whatsoever. She shook her head, frustrated.

Thunder said, “We can always break the window, jump ship, and hope to swim away.”

“And be sitting ducks. He would pick us off in the water.” Her brow creased in thought. “Unless—”

“Unless what?”

She sketched out a plan for him. When she finished, Thunder was frowning.

“It’s dangerous,” he said.

“What hasn’t been dangerous so far?”

“It could go wrong.”

“It could go right.”

Thunder studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes bright and intense. “Fair dinkem,” he said. “Let’s do it.”