Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) (5 page)

He counted their remaining energy bars and what was left of their water. They had enough supplies for one more day of travel. If they went any longer, they would need to find more water. That shouldn’t be too hard, considering the pouring water outside. The rain flowed around and underneath the tent. Inside, the humidity condensed into droplets.

The rain finally ended, leaving the air even more hot and humid. It was as if the humidity was insatiable. No matter how much liquid it poured down to the ground, it always held more, nothing like the dry heat back in California that he was used to.

With the pounding rain gone, the sounds of the forests returned.

Brandon worried about the Cessna. They had managed to pull it toward the embankment and tie it to tree trunks, covering it with plant fronds. Would the ropes hold? He feared that when they returned, it would have broken free, slid down the embankment, and floated down the river.

“Looks like we’re going to have to stay out here overnight,” Sam lamented. She lay back on the floor of the tent, her clothes and hair wet with moisture. She folded her arms behind her, looking exhausted.

“Yeah, it’s probably better than trying to move around at night,” he agreed. With sudden guilt he added, “Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Sam asked.

“I was hoping I could get us to a village by now.” He shrugged and lay beside her, resting an arm across her stomach. He could feel the dampness where sweat and rain gathered in her shirt.

“It’s not so bad,” she replied quietly. “It was my idea to come out here in the first place.”

One of their mutual friends had planned to conduct an aerial survey of Africa for the National Geographic Society a year before. When that same friend had died of heart failure, Sam suggested they volunteer.

Brandon had made a considerable living as a gambler, allowing Sam to quit modeling. That left them with enough time to enjoy what they both loved: exploring the world one country at a time. The couple was always looking for their next outrageous adventure and a tour of Africa in a small Cessna certainly measured up. It had been a little difficult convincing the Society to let the couple take over the survey, so Brandon had volunteered to provide the plane.

“And besides,” she added, “I’m the one who crashed the plane.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t . . .”

“I know!” she exclaimed before he could finish the thought. “There was nothing I could do. I
don’t
crash.”

He laughed at her sudden reversal. He should have known she wouldn’t really accept the blame for that. If she was anything, she could be stubborn, one of the many reasons he loved her.

She slid closer to him and they rested against each other, listening quietly to the sounds of the forest, as darkness fell.

4

T
he large campfire blazed into the night. The smoke acted as a natural insect repellant and with the dense canopy overhead, the forest would be pitch black. Cold wasn’t a concern. While October marked the beginning of the rainy season, the temperature rarely fell below seventy degrees Fahrenheit, even in the middle of the night.

Alfred stared at the crackling logs. The starter log Gilles had used burst into flames instantly only moments after they had decided to take the chance and start the fire. They had worried that the militia might be looking for them still and since they had camped near the road, passers-by would be able to see the flame.

Gilles, the Congolese mercenary, sat across the fire, deep in his own thoughts. As he sat, he smoked a cigarette, the tiny orange flame burning in the darkness. Nessa was by the Jeep, sorting through supplies. She was determining which supplies had been left in the other Jeep, which showed no sign of returning.

Finally, Gilles looked up and regarded Alfred carefully. Although Alfred was African by ethnicity, he had been born and raised in the United Kingdom, making him European in the eyes of the locals.

“Do you have many crocodiles in
Angleterre
?” Gilles asked suddenly. When Alfred looked up, confused by the question, the mercenary gave him a friendly grin and nodded toward the prosthetic arm.

Alfred looked down at his arm. He had long ago become accustomed to the thing. He no longer felt the “ghost pains” he experienced for years after the accident.

“No,” Alfred said, shaking his head. “No crocodiles. But if you think these jungles here are dangerous with the crocodiles and leopards, then you have never braved the streets of London.”

Gilles nodded slowly, pretending to show the man considerable respect, but his friendly smile didn’t fade.

“For those who don’t understand the maze of streets and the flow of traffic, London is a very dangerous place indeed,” Alfred continued, his tone light-hearted. “The streets are small, designed for horses and carts, and they are thick with cars of all kinds and sizes, moving to their destinations without concern for the pedestrians in between.”

Gilles’ face grew a little more serious. “You were in a car accident?”

Alfred nodded a little. “One day when I was twelve I found myself late for school. I lived in a congested part of the city—it’s called Kennington, in the Borough of Lambeth. Living there, I suppose you get used to it, and particularly when you are in a hurry you forget about the danger.”

Alfred paused. He remembered the day clearly. The sky was overcast and gray. He had been weaving down streets and alleyways having missed the bus that would take him to Stockwell Park High School.

“I was crossing Camberwell, right before it meets Clapham Road. Traffic was backed up all around. A line of cars was almost parked on Camberwell—I think that up ahead there had been an accident and the cops had closed down the street. When I saw that, I ran through the cars without thinking. I completely missed sight of a bus coming in the farthest lane.”

He remembered the sounds of honking horns and a few cursing individuals, as he weaved through the lines of automobiles until he reached the bus lane on the other side.

Across the fire, Gilles listened with rapt attention.

“Buses in London are big hulking beasts, built into two stories to hold more people,” Alfred explained. “When I saw it coming out of the corner of my eye, I panicked—naturally. I turned to duck out of the way, but I tripped and fell on the ground.”

With his hook, Alfred pointed to his good forearm, making a slashing gesture close to the wrist. “The tire rolled right over here, shattering the bone. The weight of it tore the flesh, stretching my skin over the pavement.”

Gilles winced as he visualized the gruesome accident. He rubbed a hand gently over one of his own wrists.

“I didn’t feel the pain at first, just a pulling sensation from the bus dragging my body. It wasn’t until after that the pain started to sink in and, well, I don’t think I have to tell you it was agony.”

Gilles snorted and shook his head. The mercenary was likely no stranger to pain. Alfred had spotted various scars on the man’s body.

“I knew I was dead, lying there in the street.”

Gilles asked, “Is that why you are a doctor?”

Alfred shook his head. “I’m not a doctor, really. I’m a chemist. Throughout my youth, I suffered pains and complications due to my arm. I was constantly on medicines that suppressed my immune system and weakened my body. So I was often sick.

“Then I learned about
Echinacea angustifolia,
the narrow-leaf coneflower. The plant was used by North American Plains Indians for hundreds of years to bolster the immune system and fight off infections. Its chemical make-up can be broken down into a list of chemical constituents that—”

Alfred paused, looking carefully at the man across the fire. “Well, in the interest of not being too longwinded, I began to become interested in the chemical actions of plants. Finding the science in the magic you could say.”

Gilles laughed. “Science. Magic. What’s the difference?”

Alfred laughed with him. “Exactly.”

“So you are a magic man?”

“Call me what you will. But since I discovered my love for phytochemistry, I have not once been sick.”

Gilles looked skeptical. “Not once?”

“Not once,” Alfred insisted. “Not even a sniffle.”

A sound came from the forest. Gilles was on his feet in an instant, his rifle in both hands.

“Rebels?” Alfred whispered.

Two dark silhouettes approached in the gloom, and soon the campfire reflected in the lights of their eyes.

“
Calme,
” a voice called from the darkness. Delani and Ike stepped into the firelight, looking ragged and exhausted.

Alfred breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the two men. “Thank God you’re both here.”

“Where’s the Jeep?” Nessa asked as she strode over to them.

“The rebels got it,” Ike said.

“Where is Kipwe?” Gilles asked.

Delani lowered his head.

“He’s with the Jeep,” Ike answered.

Nessa turned and walked away. Gilles, Delani, and Ike all fell silent. Their silence was the only emotion they would show. These men were hardened, familiar with brutality and loss. Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose, feeling the moisture underneath. Sweat.

A breeze blew through the forest and the campfire flickered angrily.

After a few moments of heavy silence, Alfred got up, relinquishing his spot by the fire. The three mercenaries sat quietly around the fire as the chemist made his way over to the remaining Jeep to find his colleague.

Nessa sat in the front seat, pouring over the map with a flashlight. As Alfred approached, she glanced at him before turning back to the map. He climbed in beside her.

“That’s unfortunate,” Nessa said without looking up.

“It is.”

Nessa had two maps of the Ituri Forest that she was comparing, one hand drawn and the other computer generated.

“There’s a town here on this Bantu map that isn’t on the one we got from our contact in Kinshasa.” Nessa tapped the hand-drawn map with her finger. “The area we’re looking for would be right here on this map. I’m sure the map’s not completely accurate, but the location corresponds with an unnamed village.”

“The village may not really be there,” Alfred offered. “The political environment changes so much and the forest is a mystery even to the people that live there.”

“Still, this village is not far away,” Nessa went on, pointing to another marked location. “We could go there and ask around.”

BaKokwa, as it was labeled, seemed to be no more than a day’s travel down the road. “That sounds reasonable,” Alfred said with a nod.

Neither of them noticed Ike approaching until he stood right next to them. “Delani wishes to terminate his contract with H. Hurley International,” the Australian said.

Alfred looked up in surprise. “Come again?”

“Delani feels that after losing Kipwe and the Jeep, we’ve overstayed our welcome in the Ituri Forest,” Ike explained.

Alfred fought back sudden panic. They were suddenly—possibly—so close to their goal, but if Delani and his associates abandoned them now they’d have no way to move forward. They would be forced to hire someone else and procure more supplies. In that time there was no telling what could happen. Another war could break out, making finding the flower impossible.

Although Alfred fought it, his tone sounded desperate. “Ike, I am
truly
, very sorry about what happened to Kipwe. Nessa is as well—”

Ike shot a doubtful glare at the woman, but looked back to Alfred, allowing him to continue.

“I’m sure there’s nothing we can do to make up for his loss. I’m sure if you wanted to renegotiate, H. Hurley would be willing to throw in some sort of additional funds to be awarded to his family—and to help pay for your lost Jeep.”

Ike sighed and glanced back at Delani and Gilles. “This has nothing to do with money, Alfred.”

“I know, I wasn’t implying—”

“We just don’t feel that it’s worth it to further risk our lives out here so you can find your little flower.”

Alfred felt his face grow hot. “It just so happens that this ‘little flower’ is probably worth—”

Alfred felt a cool hand around his wrist. He looked over to Nessa, who shook her head.

“I understand your passion, mate,” Ike continued. “But we don’t share it. We’ll take you back to the closest town and give you time to contact Hurley.”

Alfred nodded. “Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

Ike nodded grimly to both of them and then headed back to the fire.

“Tomorrow morning we’ll ask them to take us to BaKokwa village,” Nessa said. “They won’t refuse, it’s not far and it’s in the opposite direction the militias came from.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll call Hurley on the sat phone. We’ll get them to give a higher offer. Not that they’ll need it mind you,” Nessa said with a sly wink. “These men are not strangers to brutality. They’re mercenaries. Give them time and then tell them all about
Uya Kivuli
again. Trust me; they prefer working for us over the journalists they’re used to babysitting.”

Alfred wasn’t so sure. “They seem worked up over Kipwe.”

“It will pass. At least I think so.”

Alfred studied Nessa. She was H. Hurley International. If she wanted to give the mercenaries more money, she could. If she wanted to hire a new crew, she could do that also. If she wanted to call the whole expedition off, she could do so with little more than a phone call.

Ike sprawled out on the ground, his back resting against a tree trunk. He held his Desert Eagle, his one remaining personal weapon, in his lap. He let his mind drift as he stared up at the jungle canopy. One or two stars dared to peek through the black leaves. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard the cough of a leopard. The sound gave him pause, but he did not feel fear. After all, he was resting in an armed encampment.

He hadn’t known Kipwe all that well. He had been just another man that Delani had picked up along the way—another man whose penchant for violence could be put to use earning a dollar. Kipwe hadn’t spoken about his life much, and as far as Ike knew he had no family. He imagined that Kipwe had been very much like Delani, orphaned at a young age and forced to adapt to a hostile world.

Although Ike knew little about Kipwe, he felt a strong attachment to the man. The two had been forced to trust one another, for the sake of their own lives. Only with such a bond, Ike believed, were brothers made. Throughout his career, he had met and served beside many.

Ike had many brothers.