Arch Enemy (19 page)

“A
lex. Alex!” She opened her eyes with a start, disoriented. Simon's room. Night. That much she got. He was showing her the screen of his computer, but her vision was too blurry to make out what it was. She rubbed her eyes.

“What is it, Simon?”

“I found one. I think she's the real deal. Annette Baig.”

Alex yawned. She must have fallen asleep. Hunger gnawed at her insides. The dorm was silent, which meant that it must be late. “Spell that for me,” she said, pulling her computer onto her lap. “I'm going to look her up.”

“I can tell you she wasn't an athlete,” said Simon. “I searched her name through all the databases. Got nothing.”

Alex searched through the university website, in the enrollment and student information database. “I'm not finding much,” she said. “She enrolled at Springhaven six years ago. And graduated . . .” Alex looked at the graduation announcements from two years before, then from the year before. She even looked at the announcements from three years before, in case she graduated early. Nothing. “Huh. Weird. Looks to me like she never graduated.”

“No LinkedIn, no social media presence,” said Simon.

“Leave it. We have this one in the bag, and I need some carbs or I'm literally going to pass out.”

“Late-night snack?”

“Aw crap, it's past eleven,” she said, checking her phone. “The student center's closed.”

“Then we go to the Athena.”

“Again?” Alex complained. The Athena was the local Greek-themed diner, the nearest restaurant to campus and the only one that was open 24/7. They took full advantage of the monopoly by jacking up prices for mediocre offerings.

“Got a better idea?” he asked. “Let's go. We'll have us a plate of mozzarella sticks.”

“Make it chicken tenders and a hot chocolate and you got a deal.”

“How exactly do you stay so thin?”

“Have you checked out my muffin top lately?” She pulled up her shirt to reveal the fat poking out of the waist of her pants. Simon reached out and pinched her. “Ow! Ass.”

They bundled up and set off into the freezing cold night.

“Wanna call the campus bus?” Simon asked.

“Nah. It takes forever. I'd rather brave the cold.”

She regretted the decision about seven minutes into their walk.

“So tomorrow morning we call Annette Baig,” said Simon through ragged breaths. “What if she doesn't want to talk?”

“Then we keep trying,” said Alex. “We'll find another, and another, until someone is willing to speak up. I'm going to expose these creeps, if I have to track down every single victim. They're not getting away with this.”

They walked with teeth chattering, bracing against the cold. Once they got away from the quad, the walk to the Athena took them through a dark and deserted street with woodland on either side. Alex checked her phone.

“Cell reception's dead, for a change.”

“It'll come back in a hundred yards or so,” said Simon.

The only sound she heard as they walked was the snow crunching beneath her feet until something teased her ears. She turned her head.

“Don't look back,” she said. “We're being followed.”

“What?” He turned instinctively.

“Don't!”

“You're paranoid, Alex. This is the way to the Athena. It's gotta be just another hungry student.”

“Well, I think he's wearing a university hoodie,” she said “But I'm getting a bad vibe from this guy.”

“There's a fork ahead,” said Simon. “The right leads to the Spotswood apartments.”

“So we take it and see if he follows.” She fingered the knife in her pocket. It calmed her, like a talisman.

The walk was interminable. She pressed on as hard as she could, but there was only so much she could do on crutches, and the guy walked like an athlete, catching up with every step. They turned on the fork, where the road turned flat. Thirty seconds later, Alex saw that their tail turned behind them.

“He's coming after us,” said Alex.

“Damn it.” Simon checked his cell phone “Still no signal.”

“I'm guessing that's why he chose this place.”

“What do we do? There's nothing around.”

“I want you to run to the apartments,” Alex said. “I remember there's an emergency phone right outside the first block.”

“I'm not going to leave you alone!”

“I'm not being brave, Simon. I want you to do this because this is the best chance we have. What, you think you can fight him?” Simon didn't answer. “Run and get help while I hold him off.”

She closed her fist around the butterfly knife in her pocket. It was time to put her father's training to good use.

“Just hit the emergency button and run back,” she said. “On my signal. Go! Run!”

Simon took off, feet crunching snow under his shoes. She turned around and drew the knife from her coat.

She saw the pursuer's face. She didn't recognize him, but she memorized his features in the dim light. Definitely college-aged, with a body for football. He was ready to take off after Simon when his eyes turned to her and were filled with horrified surprise.

“What, did you expect the damsel in distress?” she demanded, brandishing the knife. “Come at me, bro.”

He looked at Simon, now far enough away that he wouldn't be able to close the distance before Simon arrived at the emergency phone.

“Come on. Or are you afraid of a woman that's not unconscious?”

This was a decisive moment for him. Could he take the crippled girl with the knife?

Thinking better of it, he spat into the clear white snow. “Stay away from this, bitch,” he said, puffing his chest like a rooster. “Quit sniffing around where you don't belong. You won't see me coming next time.”

He turned and ran into the darkness, the sound of his footsteps in the snow receding until they were lost in the stillness of the night. Shaking, turning her head to make sure he wasn't following, and jumping at every noise, Alex walked on until she saw Simon running back toward her.

“Security's coming.”

“Then let's get out of here,” she said. “I don't want to be here when they arrive. I don't want to draw any more attention to us than necessary. Not while we're investigating.”

“What? Are you crazy? You still want to continue after this?”

“We're on to something, Simon,” she said. “We can't stop now.”

“I don't think joining the Ekklesia is worth putting ourselves in danger.”

“It's not about the Ekklesia anymore,” she said. “I don't care what it costs me. I'm going to bring these bastards down.”

M
organ was awakened by the raiding party's sentry, who announced the arrival of the rest of Dimka's men, skulking through the jungle to mask their approach. The nocturnal heat was humid and oppressive. Morgan and Honoré walked through the pitch black, each trekking soldier they encountered pointing them in the direction of the leader. They found Dimka bringing up the rear, a rag tied around his head as a headband, AK-47 in his hand. Walking alongside him was Yolande, face set in a look of determination. She refused to acknowledge Morgan.

She had taken on their cause. He should have known. The hardest people can be the most idealistic.

Morgan and Honoré talked tactics with Dimka as they walked, laying out their plan and making adjustments according to the leader's more detailed picture of their capabilities. They split up the dynamite from the gold mine—six sticks for the raiding party, the rest to be divided to breach the walls.

Once they got into position at the top of the hill overlooking the house, Morgan and Honoré spent half an hour looking for sentries. Two were guarding the trucks. Among the others, the ones carrying flashlights were almost too obvious. But they spotted three creeping in the dark, within the camp and around the perimeter. And if they had seen that many, there would be more.

The sky was shifting into a leaden gray, stars melting into the coming light. It was almost time.

Morgan found the raiding party painting their faces red. “They are getting ready for battle,” said Honoré, dipping his fingers into a clay bowl of red paint, making a mark like fire rising up from the scar on his lip. Morgan followed suit by rubbing one thick swipe across his eyes. The paint smelled of butter and iron.

Dimka emerged from the forest. “The time has come. Lead the team. The rest will move as we planned. We are counting on you.”

Morgan surveyed the raiding party, faces painted red, powerful bodies brimming with energy. He took the lead of his raiding party, with Honoré behind the ten others. They moved single-file down toward the house. They made it within sight of the perimeter wall under cover of forest when they spotted the first sentry.

Morgan held up a fist to indicate for the squad to stop. The sentry was moving in from their left, looking into the dark jungle, where he did not see his approaching death. Morgan waited for him to pass, knife in hand, and bounded out from behind a tree. His strides cracked leaves and branches underfoot, but it was too late for the sentry to react. Morgan plunged the knife into his neck. He collapsed.

Signaling for one of the men to take the guard's Uzi, Morgan scanned the trees growing near the perimeter wall. The wall itself was built out of brick, topped with ceramic roof tiles. He found the perfect spot—a tree that grew diagonally against the wall, with a convenient bough to serve as a foothold. He climbed over, dropping down on the other side.

The camp of soldiers was on their left. They kept as far right as they could while still remaining under the cover of the trees. The whole area was silent and still. The men moved on light feet until they reached the edge of the forest, where tree cover trailed off. Now was the most dangerous part. They had to run one hundred feet out in the open to the trucks, parked in a loose triangular formation.

The two guards were circling the trucks, unaware of the invaders, holding automatic rifles pointing at the ground. Morgan waited until both were out of sight and then ran forward, feet pounding the loose dirt, closing the gap in ten seconds flat.

Winding between the trucks, he circled back around the first, slitting a guard's throat. Then he rolled under another truck, slashing at the passing guard's Achilles tendons. The guard dropped to the ground, too surprised to emit more than a yelp. When he hit the ground, Morgan was ready with the knife.

He signaled to Honoré, and the other nine men of the raiding party moved across the open space single file to the trucks.

The man holding the satchel of dynamite passed it to Morgan, who climbed into the back of the nearest truck, shielded from view of the camp. He examined the crate of guns, cheap wood painted green. The wood had splintered where the nail had held the lid tight.

This crate had been opened. All of them had. He set the satchel down and pulled open the lid.

It was empty.

Morgan didn't hear the approach of the men who surrounded them. By the time he looked up, they were already there—thirty of Madaki's soldiers, in their ratty civilian clothing, armed with a brand-new arsenal of Colt AR-15 tactical carbines.

“
Laisse tomber tes armes!
”

Honoré looked at Morgan for leadership.

Resistance was suicide.

“Do it, Honoré. Tell the men to drop their weapons.”

Morgan tossed his Star 30M on the muddy ground. The other guns clattered as the rest of the raiding party let go of theirs.

Only then did he allow himself to be seen. The tall, pale man in the graphite suit, face like a skull. Mr. White, next to a man in military fatigues and a beret who could only be Stéphane Madaki.

“Bevelacqua, isn't it?” said White. “Fancy meeting you here.”

On seeing Madaki, Honoré screamed with rage and went for his dropped AK-47. Madaki was quicker. He fired a single shot from his sidearm. Honoré fell forward onto the mud, a bullet in his chest. Morgan looked down at him, inhaling short, shallow breaths, eyes wide, life draining out of him.

Madaki barked orders at his men, and they prodded Honoré's raiding party into the basement of the house, to be tortured for information.

White pulled Morgan out of the line. “Not you. You're coming with me.”

They marched him into the decrepit mansion. Morgan had crossed the door into the foyer when the windows rattled with the force of an explosion, followed by two more. Madaki's bodyguard pushed him to the ground, covering him.

Morgan strained to look out the window, where smoke was rising at the perimeter wall.

“They won't save you,” said White. “They'll never reach the house.”

With that, a cellar door swung open and at least a hundred men poured out, wielding the new AR-15s.

Morgan was yanked toward the stairs by Madaki's bodyguard, a near seven-foot-tall hulk of bone, muscle, and fat. Outside, the gunmen opened fire on Dimka's rebels.

T
he fist hit Morgan in the face like lead. The room whirled and dots swam before his eyes. They resolved into the face of Mr. White.

“Who do you work for?”

Morgan spat blood on the dusty hardwood floor of the mansion.

They were in a second-floor living room, where Madaki sat on an old solid wooden chair like a king on a throne. Two men carrying automatic rifles stood guard at the door. Madaki and White were watching the battle rage outside through broad windows, with half the panes missing and the remaining ones cracked.

Madaki had sent a battalion of his men with the new AR-15s to hold a few miles away. They waited for Dimka's troops to breach the perimeter and then moved against them in the jungle, while the group that had come from the cellar fought them on the property. Dimka's men were stuck fighting on two fronts.

They were getting massacred.

“This little rebellion won't last long,” said White. “With their new weapons, Mr. Madaki's men are unstoppable.”

“Kill him and have it over with,” said Madaki. The warlord was shorter than Morgan had expected, with a snub nose on a chubby cherub's face.

“This man found me twice,” said White. “I need to know who sent him.”

With a signal from White, Madaki's bodyguard swung his fist again. It sunk into Morgan's gut. He spat up blood.

“This is a waste of time,” said Madaki.

“What do you propose I do?”

Madaki pulled out a straight razor from his pocket and held it out, open, for White. “Use the knife. You will see how fast he talks when parts of him start coming off.”

White looked at the blade with distaste. Madaki extended it to his bodyguard instead, who took it and ran his finger along the edge. The warlord stood up and grabbed Morgan by the scruff on his shirt, dragging him to the window.

“See how your people die,” he said.

The land was strewn with bodies. The rebel soldiers had opted to move inside the perimeter wall, rallying at a defensive position in the ruin of a chapel. They found cover there from Madaki's gunmen, but the latter were moving in with overwhelming automatic fire. It wouldn't be long until Dimka's forces were all dead.

The massive bodyguard pulled Morgan back and, with a meaty hand on his neck, pinned him against a wall. He brought the open razor against the base of Morgan's ear.

White stepped forward. “Are you really going to make me do this?”

Morgan tried to speak, but couldn't with the bodyguard's hand blocking his windpipe. White gestured and the bodyguard eased his grip. Morgan only just got the words out in a raspy, guttural voice.

“No. I'm not.”

Morgan kicked the bodyguard's leg and they heard the sickening crack of bone. The razor clattered on the ground. The bodyguard screamed in pain. Morgan grabbed the razor and pulled White into a headlock, moving backward and setting the razor against his neck.

“Stay back or I kill him.”

Madaki laughed. “I have my guns. You would be doing me a favor.” He addressed his two guards. “
Tue-le
.”

Madaki's men raised their guns. Morgan swallowed hard.

The room darkened as two shapes blocked the light from the windows. Then the glass shattered, the two figures broke through, and gunshot resounded in the room. Madaki's guards fell, dead.

There, standing at the windows, were Bishop and Spartan, still attached to their rappel ropes. Morgan made out the sound of a helicopter's rotor turning overhead.

Morgan turned to Madaki, but the warlord was already fleeing the room. Morgan released White to follow him, but Bishop put his hand on Morgan's shoulder.

“Leave him,” Bishop said. “He's not getting far. Look outside.”

Morgan stepped over the writhing bodyguard to stand at the broken window against the fresh breeze that was blowing inside. Five troop carriers were driving into the property. They parked and men in full Ivorian military uniform poured out, in neat formation. It was Madaki's men, who'd been pressing against the ruined chapel, who were now fighting on two fronts.

Morgan turned around to see Bishop putting White in handcuffs. “Who are the soldiers?” he asked.

“General Jakande sent them. I guess he saw an opportunity.”

Morgan turned his attention back to the battle. The army soldiers were advancing. They were minutes away from a rout.

“Morgan,” said Bishop. “We need to get up on the roof to leave with the chopper.”

Morgan scanned the battlefield below. While Jakande's men were swarming the chapel attackers, another group of Madaki's soldiers was moving back in the opposite direction. Holding them off single-handedly, pinned against one of White's trucks, was a small woman in a tank top, holding an Uzi in her left hand, bleeding from her right shoulder.

Yolande.

“Morgan, we need to go!” said Bishop

“I'll meet up with you later!” He grabbed the AR-15 from one of the dead guards and dashed out of the room.

“Morgan! Where are you going?”

“Go!” He ran full tilt downstairs and circled around the back door. He leapt over bodies as he reached White's green canopied Mercedes-Benz trucks.

The chopper lifted off the roof and flew overhead, moving south. Within seconds it had cleared the property.

Morgan circled the trucks and opened fire on the encroaching soldiers. They stopped their progress, sending a barrage of bullets in response. Morgan kept low and ran to Yolande, taking cover behind the truck cab alongside her. She was nursing a wounded arm.

“What the hell are you doing here? I thought you left in the chopper!”

“Well, I stayed!” The battlefield smelled of blood and burning gunpowder. Morgan peeked around the grille of the truck and fired a volley of bullets from his AR-15. The attackers hesitated, but continued moving forward.

They didn't have long. Not long enough to wait for Jakande's men to save them.

“Okay, genius, you came here to save me,” said Yolande. “Now what's your plan?”

Morgan stood flat against the side of the truck, mind racing, when his eyes locked onto something.

The satchel of dynamite, which Morgan had dropped to check on the weapons crates. It was still there, where he'd left it, lying in the mud. Nobody had thought to pick it up.

Morgan crawled forward and raised it off the ground, feeling its weight. He crouched behind the truck and, holding on to the strap, he swung it overhand. It sailed over the truck and landed among the attackers. They yelled and ran for cover. Morgan rolled onto the muddy ground and fired.

The satchel erupted in flames, hot air blowing against his face.

Morgan scuttled back to sit next to Yolande, leaning against the truck's tire. The gunfire grew sparser and more distant as Jakande's men beat back Madaki's.

Morgan took a deep breath. It was over.

He turned to Yolande. “You're welcome, by the way.”

“I did not ask for you to come save me.” Her lips curled into something like a smile. “But thank you for coming anyway.”