Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) (32 page)

Jean’s body tensed when he heard the stream of automatic fire. It came from nearby, across the trail. He had checked in with the eastern sentry only a moment before, keeping an eye out for pygmies. He was heading back toward the clearing and had almost reached the break in the foliage.

Although the gunfire seemed to originate from the sentry on the opposite side of the trail, if they were under attack the closer sentry might need his guidance.

Jean crept through the forest, drawing his automatic Glock. He held the weapon in front of him and rounded a tree trunk.

The sentry came into view, leaned against the tree, his assault rifle pointed at the ground. Jean spotted a shadow moving in the undergrowth. He aimed his Glock and fired. For the second time that night, automatic fire ripped through the sleeping forest.

Leaves burst around the shadowy figure, and he dove to the ground. The sentry looked up, bringing his assault rifle to the ready.

Gilles hugged the ground as bullets flew over his head. The second gunman, his original target, pointed the barrel of the Kalashnikov into the bushes that Gilles crouched in.

Mud blasted around him and leaves shredded as he inhaled the scents of metal and smoke. Completely abandoning his knife, his hand slipped to his AK-47 resting in the mud. He pulled the long rifle up beside him and blindly squeezed the trigger. It rattled against his chest and stomach, bruising the flesh.

The enemy soldiers scrambled for cover. The one at the tree dove around the trunk, while the other hit the ground, pistol extended.

Gilles took the momentary reprieve to crawl back on his elbows until he slid behind a mound of earth. He rested the AK-47 in the dirt and let loose a stream of fire. The dark night lit up with the flashes of gunfire.

Brandon ducked his head at the first sound of gunfire. His nerve-rattled mind thought he had somehow done something wrong and been spotted, but when he realized the gunfire originated in the jungle, he knew it was somebody else who had blown their cover. That was no relief.

He felt vulnerable as he crept across the clearing. The sound of shouts from the camp to his right and the continued fighting to his left drove him faster. He abandoned stealth and sprinted toward the driver’s side door.

His breath caught in his throat as he pounded the mud and, as he reached the door, he jumped for it. His body hit the door, banging loudly. But Brandon didn’t pause. He pulled the door open and climbed into the musty cabin. Inside, the walls were plagued with as much rust as the outside, and the seat cushions were torn to shreds.

He sat down in the driver’s seat and reached up to the visor as Ike had suggested. The Australian seemed to think the ignition keys would be kept inside the vehicle. In fact, he had hinged the entire plan on that fact. So when Brandon didn’t find a visor waiting for him, he began to panic.

What would he do if there wasn’t a key? Frantically, his hands slid across the dashboard, kicking up dust and not much else.

In his rearview mirror, he saw shapes emerging from tents. The entire camp would be roused in only a few short moments, and Brandon had no means of escape.

God damn it!

His hands slid across the steering wheel in defeat. Something firm and rigid sliced across his fingers. Brandon looked down in surprise at the steering column. When he saw the key in the ignition he wanted to slap himself.

He hesitated. Although the camp was alerted, they still didn’t know where he was. The sound of the engine would change all that. Once he turned it, there’d be no turning back.

He took a deep breath and twisted the ignition key.

Lutalo was sure something was very wrong with the sentry by the Jeeps. Instead of responding to the sounds of gunfire, the silhouette had crouched further between the vehicles in an attempt to hide. That was not the reaction Lutalo expected from one of his soldiers.

He drew his pistol as he jogged across the clearing, his eyes set on the stranger. One shot to the head, quick and easy, but no sport.

A rumble to his right made him pause. Lutalo swung his gaze in that direction, settling on the tractor-trailer, its engine rattling. Lutalo changed directions immediately.

He ran right up to the passenger side door and yanked it open along its rusty hinges. The driver turned his head, a white man with curly brown hair. Lutalo got one look at him and tensed his muscles. The man looked afraid, an expression Lutalo relished.

And the man was unarmed.

Lutalo placed his gun on the step at the bottom of the doorway and drew his knife.

The man sat, frozen in place, another trophy for Lutalo’s earring.

Damn it. Too soon!

Ike stood up from setting his trap and looked out across the encampment. Already the soldiers were waking up and taking up weapons. Soon they would respond to the attack with automatic fire. Ike needed to give Brandon and Raoul a chance to get into position.

He lifted the grenade launcher, arcing it toward the center of the tents. When he squeezed the trigger, the metal cylinder blasted back into his arms with a loud pop. The projectile shot out into the darkness and vanished. Not a moment later, a ball of fire erupted between two of the tents throwing fabric, poles, blankets, and men in all directions.

No way had anyone slept through that, Ike mused. He held the weapon at the ready, but didn’t fire immediately. The launcher’s ammunition was limited.

Raoul scrambled to the side of the Jeep at his right, the one mounted with the machine gun. As per the plan, the Frenchman climbed inside, crawling into the driver’s seat. Ike watched as Raoul fumbled his hands around the ignition switch then moved them along the dashboard, and between the seats.

When he didn’t find a key he turned to Ike and asked, “What now?”

“Go to the truck,” Ike ordered. “Now.”

Lutalo’s wild eyes would have sent chills down Brandon’s body in any situation. Now in the dead of night, in the middle of the rebel camp, he felt the cool creep of death.

Moonlight glinted off of the long knife in the African’s hands. Brandon couldn’t miss the razor sharp edge of the blade, nor the corded muscles in the arms that carried it. The seat cushion squeaked as Lutalo crawled forward into the passenger seat.

For a moment, Brandon sat paralyzed, unsure what to do. As he collected his wits and realized the engine was still thrumming in front of him, he jammed the truck into gear and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The diesel engine roared as the vehicle sprang into motion.

Although slow to start, the initial quick jerk of movement threw Lutalo off balance and he fell back against the cushion. He gripped the seat with both hands to catch himself.

Brandon pushed the pedal all the way to floor. The truck bounced and jarred on the uneven ground underneath. It was too slow to pick up speed, carrying the weight of the trailer and the plane on its back.

As the African rose up onto his knees, knife ready and murder in his eyes, Brandon shifted his foot over and slammed on the brakes. The man tumbled forward, striking his head on the dashboard and almost collapsing between the seats.

Brandon didn’t relent, shifting his foot once again to the gas pedal. This time, as he pushed his foot down, while the engine roared, the truck didn’t accelerate and instead continued its roll to a stop.

Only then did Brandon realize that the African had taken hold of the gearshift and jammed the vehicle into neutral.

He climbed quickly, pushing off with his muscular legs. Brandon panicked, rolled into a ball in the driver’s seat, and kicked. Brandon caught him in the chest with his feet, but the man’s weight kept his legs buckled in front of him.

He swung the knife. Brandon caught his wrist and tried stopping the blade. His muscles strained against the driving blade, as he looked into the African’s cold, confident eyes.

The attacker punched him in the ribs. The blow drove the air from his lungs and stole the strength from his limbs. As the knife drove closer, Brandon slid further into his seat, until he sat curled between the seat and the steering column.

From there, the man struggled to reach around the steering wheel with his right fist, while the left one continued driving the knife down. From atop the seat, he was at a disadvantage and could no longer put all his strength behind the blade. He shouted a curse in KiSwahili and shifted tactics. With one booted foot, he stepped on Brandon’s chest, driving him into the floor. The boot crushed Brandon’s ribs, while the soldier angled the other foot in between the seat and steering column to kick him in the face.

The boot caught the edge of Brandon’s cheek and left him dazed, his face numb. Meanwhile, he was trapped, wedged helplessly in the small space. On his back with his feet in the air, he grabbed the boot on his chest and tried pushing it off. The pressure on his chest pushed the air out of his lungs so his breath came in small gasps.

His foot came down again, this time grazing Brandon’s forehead. The African meant to beat him senseless until he could offer no resistance to the knife. Before, with the Mbuti warrior, Brandon had been able to use his height as an advantage. Here, curled at the bottom of the cabin and against a much taller opponent, he had no hope of fighting against such strength.

Still holding him pinned with one foot, the man leaned forward, knife extended. Brandon let go of the boot, seeing no escape that way. Instead, he twisted in the small space. His left elbow pressed down on the clutch. His right foot kicked the gearshift. Then he shifted his left arm, so his palm pressed down on the gas pedal. Meanwhile his right hand grabbed the steering wheel and twisted it.