Jungle Kill (11 page)

With that, he moved further into the jungle. By now his eyes had grown accustomed to the ambient light coming from the helicopter and the dying fires from the explosions.

Ngola was here somewhere. Lying in wait. Mitch could feel him.

He squatted down and listened, trying to identify the different sounds he could hear: nocturnal animals; birds moving in the trees, roosting for the night; the sounds of swamps and insects. Add to that the constant background hum from the chopper. The jungle was alive with noise.

Mitch felt a sense of anger and frustration. He knew his chances of finding Ngola were very slim. If Ngola was here and watching him, all the bandit had to do was keep one step ahead, or just lie low and wait for Mitch to blunder into his position.

Nelson was right. This was a wild-goose chase. This was Ngola’s home territory; he could hide here
for a long time. And the longer Mitch waited, the more the clock ticked towards the chopper leaving. If he wanted to get home alive, he should be on the chopper. But Mitch couldn’t shake his feeling of responsibility to Adwana and the other villagers. If he left the jungle now, Ngola and his men would carry out their threat and all the villagers would die, butchered horribly.

He wondered how long he had left. He was sure Nelson’s original ten minutes must be up. And then he heard the sound of the chopper’s engine change as it engaged. He could feel the downdraught of the rotors through the trees and the lights rising in the night sky. The helicopter was leaving.

He hoped Two Moons had made it back in time. Mitch was sure he had: Two Moons had been with Nelson for two years, so he’d know that when Nelson said something, he meant it. And, as Nelson had said right from the start, the aim of the mission was to rescue Mwanga and get him to safety. Delta Unit had gone; Mitch was on his own.

Mitch strained his ears for sounds that would give Ngola away. He listened for boots cracking on twigs. For guns being cocked.

Ngola had a machete and a pistol. He seemed to favour the machete, but he would have to be close to his enemy to use it. A pistol killed from a distance. But that meant getting a clear shot. Here in the jungle, at night, that wouldn’t be so easy.

Mitch hefted the rifle in his hands. It was an FN FAL with a twenty-round magazine. He’d used one before; it was a good weapon. The magazine felt half empty, so he guessed he had about ten bullets. He made sure the rifle was on single shot.

Suddenly he heard a noise. A rustle in the trees, then footsteps approaching. More than one.

He crouched down, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire as soon as he saw Ngola. Then, through the ambient light still coming from the fires and burning wreckage, Mitch saw Ngola with a group of his armed bandits pushing their way through the undergrowth, heading back towards the hotel. They must have felt it was safe to return now the helicopter had gone.

Mitch raised the rifle and took sight. He cursed. He couldn’t get a clear shot as Ngola was surrounded by about six men. He’d have to get rid of the ones in the way first before he could take out Ngola.

He fired twice, and hit his targets both times. Two men crumpled to the ground, yelling in pain as his bullets struck home. Ngola stopped and swung round, and in the half-light Mitch could see the expression of shock on his face as he looked down at the two fallen men.

Got you! thought Mitch triumphantly as he held Ngola firmly in his sights and pulled the trigger.

The gun jammed.

‘Damn!’ cursed Mitch.

He pulled the trigger again, but the bullets were stuck. Either the bandit whose gun it had been hadn’t looked after it, or he’d stuffed the wrong size ammo in the magazine. Mitch heard shouting and realised that Ngola had recovered and was screaming orders at his men, ordering them to scatter and search the jungle.

Then Ngola’s voice yelled out: ‘Hear me, Yankee!’

He’s got that wrong, thought Mitch.

‘The fact you didn’t shoot me after you killed my men means your gun is useless!’ continued Ngola.

But he’s got that one right, mused Mitch.

‘If you give yourself up, I will give you a quick and easy death!’ Ngola shouted. ‘But if you make me come and find you, your death will be more painful than you can imagine!’

There was silence, and then Ngola shouted: ‘Very well! You wish to die painfully!’

With that, he shouted more orders, and his
men began to crash through the jungle in search of Mitch.

Great! thought Mitch sourly. He looked at the FAL rifle in his hands, and cursed silently again. A good weapon, ruined by some idiot! Now it was only useful as a club.

The sounds of Ngola’s men’s boots were getting nearer. If he started to run, they’d hear him crashing through the undergrowth and they’d start shooting. Even firing blind, with automatic fire there was a good chance that some of their bullets would hit him.

Mitch scanned the area immediately around him, and saw a dark patch of water. A jungle swamp. He didn’t know how deep it was, or what dangers might be lurking in the stagnant water, but it was the only protection he had on offer right now.

He slid on his belly to the edge of the swamp and let himself sink into the stinking, thick muddy water. He took the FAL in with him. The firing mechanism was already jammed, so mud inside
it wouldn’t make it any more useless than it already was.

He sank further. The water was deeper than he’d thought, and now it came right up to his neck. He reached out and grabbed hold of a nearby tree root, just as his head sank beneath the surface. No sooner had he submerged than he felt the thudding vibration of boots crashing past, shaking the tree root and rippling the thick oozing water. He stayed beneath the water, holding his breath, mouth closed firmly.

He could feel water insects and leeches on his skin, eager for fresh food. They crept over his body, along his arms, digging into the skin of his neck and back.

Mitch stayed under as long as he could. He’d have to take a chance and put his head out to get some air soon. He couldn’t feel any more vibrations, but that didn’t mean that Ngola’s men weren’t near by, maybe even watching this jungle pond.

Carefully, slowly, Mitch eased his head out of the
water, taking in a breath gratefully as his nose and mouth broke the surface.

There was no one around. Ngola’s men had gone.

Mitch stayed with the rest of his body beneath the water and listened for a while longer, letting his eyes get used to the jungle half-light again.

He could make out some of Ngola’s men back in the grounds of the hotel. The rest were probably still searching for him in the jungle.

The hotel itself was still in semi-darkness, so he guessed they hadn’t been able to repair the generator yet.

Where was Ngola? Again, Mitch guessed that he’d be back inside the hotel, talking on his satellite phone, trying to salvage the situation. No doubt he was pretending to his customers that he still had Mwanga and the soldiers as his prisoners.

Mitch pulled himself clear of the water and slid on to the earth. He was covered from head to foot in black slime, and was armed only with a rifle that didn’t work. But he had promised himself
that he would protect the villagers who’d helped them, so he was going to find Ngola even if it was the last thing he did.

Mitch weighed up his situation. The rifle he had didn’t work, but there would be better weapons inside the hotel. If he dumped the rifle on the ground here and Ngola’s men found it, they would be able to track his movements and discover he was heading for the hotel. He wanted Ngola to think he was on the run in the jungle, so he slid the rifle into the jungle pond and let it sink out of sight beneath the murky water. There would be no trace of it. But now he was completely unarmed. If caught, he couldn’t even bluff his way out of trouble.

Mitch crouched down just inside the edge of the jungle and studied the hotel. In the dim light he could see that some of the windows had been uncovered during the fire-fight, the wooden boards
and sheets of iron dangling and broken. One of those windows would be the best way in. He settled on one with no light at all coming from it. No light meant no torches, which he hoped meant no one was inside.

Some of Ngola’s men were still out in front of the hotel. He could see a couple at the back, by what remained of the generator, shining torches on it and examining it for damage.

Good, he thought. That will keep them occupied. So long as they don’t turn those torches my way.

He crept low and fast from the jungle to the unguarded side hotel wall. He dropped down in the grass beneath the dark broken window and strained his ears for any sound from within. There was nothing.

Mitch stood up carefully, keeping alert the whole time for any movements. He checked the window. In one corner of it, the glass had been smashed out. Mitch carefully pushed the dangling wooden board to one side, pulled himself up to the
window sill, and then slid into the room.

Once inside, he knelt on the floor, his vision adjusting to the dim light. He heard sounds from outside, and from the rooms nearby. Then he heard Ngola’s voice, loud and commanding. It came from somewhere upstairs. Wherever he was, the door of the room was open because his voice was perfectly audible. Then Ngola stopped shouting and Mitch heard a door slamming and boots crashing down the stairs.

He hurried over to the door and peered through the crack. One of Ngola’s men was coming. The man went into the room opposite where Mitch was. Immediately a hubbub of voices broke out, but was muffled as the door shut.

The men were worried about their money. That much Mitch had heard before the door closed. With Mwanga gone, there would be no ransom.

Mitch guessed Ngola was already planning his next scheme. Another kidnapping probably. Maybe foreign workers on the oil fields. The oil firms
usually paid up, if the worker taken was vital to them.

This came to an end for Ngola now, vowed Mitch. But he needed a weapon.

He scanned the room. It was a shambles. There were pieces of broken furniture and wrecked chairs everywhere, and a collapsed wooden table with only three legs remaining. Mitch went to the table and picked up the fourth leg from where it lay on the floor. It felt heavy. It would make a good club.

Then his eyes caught a glint in the half-light: something metal on the floor near one of the walls. Mitch moved over to it. It was a knife.

He picked it up and felt it in his hand. It was double-bladed with a sharp point and a good hilt. Well balanced if it needed to be thrown. At a distance it was no match for a gun, but up close it would be silent and deadly. But first he had to get near to Ngola. And alone, without any of Ngola’s men around to defend him.

He was about to put the table leg back down on
the floor when he stopped. A weapon was a weapon. A club and a knife. They could both be useful.

Mitch peered out through the crack in the door again, checking the hallway and the stairs. No one was there. Silently he opened the door wider and slid out, then padded across to the stairs and began to climb them. He had thought of taking off his boots to make himself as silent as possible. Then he considered the other possibilities: treading on broken glass from the fire-fight, having his feet slashed at with a machete. He decided to keep his boots on.

He made it to the top of the stairs. The first-floor landing went in both directions, left and right. Which way would lead him to Ngola? And which room? If he blundered into the wrong one and came face to face with a bunch of Ngola’s armed bandits, he was as good as dead.

Suddenly a phone rang out. Ngola’s satellite phone again! Coming from one of the rooms to the left.

Mitch moved noiselessly along the corridor until he came to a door from behind which he heard Ngola’s voice, bargaining, still offering the death of Mwanga ‘at a good price'. Mitch pushed the knife into the belt of his trousers. He held the broken table leg firmly in his right hand and his left went to the door handle. Slowly, he turned the handle and pushed it gently, just a crack, enough to hear Ngola’s voice clearer and to know that the door hadn’t been locked.

Ngola was still talking on his phone. Good, thought Mitch. His attention will be on the conversation.

Mitch pushed open the door and stepped in, swinging his gaze around the room to see if anyone else was there. Ngola was alone.

Ngola turned, and as he saw Mitch his mouth dropped open.

I must look like some nightmare creature from the swamp, thought Mitch grimly, covered from head to toe in slimy mud.

Ngola recovered and his hand reached for the pistol that lay on the top of a large desk near him. Mitch acted quickly, hurling the broken table leg straight at Ngola. It struck the bandit leader full in the face and he fell backwards with a yell. Mitch leapt forward, reaching for the pistol, but Ngola reacted, throwing the table leg at the gun. The gun went skidding off the desk, sliding into a jumble of papers and clothes and then disappearing between some shelves and the wall.

Mitch turned towards the shelves, but Ngola was shouting for help from his men. Swiftly, Mitch kicked the door shut, then yanked another heavy
wooden desk across the door. That would hold them back for a short while. So long as it was enough time to finish Ngola.

Ngola had scrambled back to his feet and thrown himself towards the shelves, tearing at them, searching for the fallen gun. Mitch took the knife from his waistband and lunged at Ngola. Ngola saw the movement and twisted himself back, the blade narrowly missing him.

He ran for the door. For a moment Mitch thought he was going to pull the desk away, but instead Ngola had snatched something up from near it. Now he stood and smiled triumphantly at Mitch. In his hand was his machete.

‘You have a knife,’ he sneered, ‘but it is nothing against a machete!’

Ngola’s men had arrived outside now and were shouting and pushing against the door, trying to force the desk away from it.