The Taste of Fear (29 page)

“Who else?”

“Why would he be interested in that coffin?”

“That’s what I want to find out. Give me a hand with the lid again. Try not to drop it this time.”

She joined him at the coffin. On the count of three they heaved the lid off and set it on the floor so it leaned at a forty-five degree angle against the wall. They covered their noses and peered in. The coffin was filled with a smorgasbord of automatic weapons, boxes of ammunition, magazines, grenades, and other miscellaneous military gear.

“Jackpot,” Sal said.

Scarlett uncovered her nose. This time the only smell was that of oil and metal and cardboard. “Why would Jahja be stashing all these weapons out here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, whatever. Can we leave now? I want to get Joanna and Miranda down here so I can attend to Thunder.”

Sal nodded but not before he selected a grenade and stashed it in his pocket.

Scarlett frowned. “Why do you want that?”

“We’re still in the jungle,
cara mia,
still vulnerable. Until Danny arrives, it’s better to remain safe than sorry.”

“Safe from what?”

Sal didn’t have an answer to that—or if he did, he wasn’t telling.

“Got any food?”

“There’s some in the church. We ate some earlier. I’ll go get you something.”

He looked confused. “What about, you know, the bad guys?”

“They’re all dead.”

Hearing herself speak those words gave her a thrill. It shouldn’t. Death was still death, regardless of who it had ferried across the Styx, and she wasn’t sadistic, but she couldn’t help the feeling. Jahja and his cronies were dead; she and Sal and Thunder were alive. All was as it should be in the world.

Except for Joanna and Miranda, she thought dourly. Don’t forget about them.

Apparently her words gave Thunder a thrill too. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, as if he was going to ask what she was talking about.

“I’ll explain when I get back,” she told him.

“I’m coming too,” Sal said.

“I can get it—”

“Yes, I know,” he said, cutting her off. “Still, we should stick together.”

Scarlett nodded. She understood. They didn’t know for sure whether the Irishman was truly gone or not. They collected their assault rifles—Sal had shown her how to use hers—and went outside. Halfway across the road, Scarlett froze. She grabbed Sal’s forearm and pointed to the west side of the clearing, where a short column of people had emerged from the woods and were now walking toward the town.

“Who are they?” she said.

Thunder grumbled loudly. The line of men grew more distinct, and she counted at least two dozen. One of the half-naked tribes she’d seen living along the riverbank? A rat-pack of bushman-like Congolese villagers? Yes, it must—

A zigzag of lightning crackled overhead, momentarily illuminating the clearing. She was wrong. Not villagers. They wore backward or sideways baseball caps, bandanas, and baggy T-shirts and shorts. A few even had on mismatched military uniforms and too-large combat helmets. They walked with a swagger, like the Mexican street gangs in LA. They all carried automatic weapons.

“Rebels,” Sal said, stating what she was thinking. “I think that was their stash of weapons we discovered earlier.”

Scarlett wondered if Sal had suspected this back in the crypt, and if that was the reason he’d taken the grenade. But there was no time to press the matter. The rebels had spotted them in the flash of lightning as well. They let out a collective cry and broke into a run toward them.

Sal raised his assault rifle.

“Don’t,” Scarlett said, yanking his arm back down. “There’re too many of them. If they see you pointing that thing, they’ll shoot us down.” She was aware of the quiver in her voice.

“What the hell do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing we can do.”

When the large group of men came to within fifty feet, they stopped and shouted incomprehensible words and waved their guns in the air.

Scarlett and Sal raised their hands.

Bolstered by the show of peace, the rebels advanced slowly. Scarlett realized she had been wrong. They weren’t men. They were boys, most no older than teenagers. It was like a scene out of
Lord of the Flies.
Or, more precisely,
Lord of the Flies
meets
Boyz n the Hood.
Even
so, she was trembling. Their expressions were murder, their eyes bloodshot. A few were holding bottles of a murky white drink that she was pretty sure wasn’t milk.

A long, thin, tubular object was strapped to the back of one of them.

A rocket launcher?

Christ.

“Hello,” Sal said, and the confidence he displayed amazed her. “Do you speak English?”

The oldest kid, who was maybe in his early twenties, stepped forward. He was wearing wraparound sunglasses and an extra-large Eminem T-shirt. A red beret sat atop his thick, tightly curled black hair, and it was cocked to one side, almost rakishly so. He looked simultaneously ridiculous and terrifying.

“I am Killer,” he announced.

Scarlett and Sal exchanged a look. A burst of lightning sparked the sky, chased by heavy thunder. The rain fell harder.

“Killer is your name?” Sal said. A little less confident?

“Sergeant Major Killer. I want money.”

“We don’t have any money.”

“You give me drugs then.”

“Do I look like I carry drugs, chief?”

Scarlett rested a warning hand on Sal’s forearm. What was he thinking? These might be kids, but this was their world—a world without rules or repercussions. If they decided Sal was patronizing them, they’d likely shoot him for his insolence.

Undeterred by the rain, the kid with the red beret took out a rolled cigarette and lit up. Not tobacco, Scarlett realized when the waft of smoke drifted in her face. Cannabis.

They were drunk and high.

Killer took off the shades, hooked them on the neck of his shirt, and said, “Give me your guns.”

“No,” Sal said.

“Yes, Sal,” Scarlett said harshly. She lifted the rifle strap over her shoulder and handed the weapon to Killer stock first. He examined it for a moment, then fired a burst of bullets into the air.

Scarlett ducked, covering her ears. Sal stepped backward.

Killer tossed the AK-47 to one of the other kids and said, “I want that one also.”

This time Sal gave it to him without protest.

“Why are you here?” he asked, handing the joint to a guy with a Leonardo DiCaprio T-shirt.

Scarlett knew full well her face could just as easily have been on that shirt, and she wondered if she should tell these kids who she was. Would they suddenly treat her to a big feast with music and dancing like something out of
Romancing the Stone?
Or would they rape her and kill her for the bragging rights? She looked in Killer’s blood-crazed eyes. She kept quiet.

“We’re Americans,” Sal said. “We were taken here by terrorists.”

“You lie. You are FDLR.”

“Do we look like FDLR?”

Scarlett wiped rain from her eyes. “What’s that?”

“Forces démocratiques de libération du Rwanda,”
Sal told her. “A Rwandan rebel group.”

“See, I am right,” Killer said. “You are FDLR.”

“Why would we be down here, this far south?”

“You are running from the Rwanda Army or the Congolese government.”

“Look at me, kid,” Sal said curtly. “Am I black?”

“You are undercover.” Killer laughed. “No, I know who you are for real. You are UN. You are MONUC. You are working with the armed forces to get rid of us.”

“And who are you?”

“I am Rambo. Major General Rambo.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“So you are MONUC?”

“No.”

“I think you are.”

“Listen, Killer—”

“Rambo.”

“Okay, Rambo—”

“Major General Rambo.”

Sal took an impatient breath and said, “Look, Major General Rambo. There’s a helicopter coming for us very soon. When it gets here, I can get you some money, if that’s what you want. Just relax for now and be patient.”

“We will kill them.”

Sal’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Yeah?” he said. “Good luck.”

“We will eat them.”

Scarlett couldn’t help but feel as if she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. The conversation sounded comical, absurd even, but there was an underlying menace that made the hair on the back of her neck stand tall.

A burst of forked lightning lit the dark sky a broken blue. The kid with the DiCaprio shirt shouted and pointed to Jahja’s body lying twenty-five feet away in the middle of the road.

“You killed him?” Rambo said to Sal.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told you. We were kidnapped. He was one of the kidnappers.”

“He is a soldier?”

“He’s a terrorist.”

“How many more soldiers are here?”

“None.”

Rambo barked something to his gang. Two of the kids jogged off to search the buildings. They emerged from the prison dragging Thunder by the arms and tossed him onto the muddy road. Thunder, still semi-unconscious, raised his head and started to say something. One of the kids kicked him in the face with his boot. He collapsed and lay still.

Scarlett cringed but held her tongue.

“You lied to me,” Rambo said, then fired a slug into Sal’s leg. Sal gasped, collapsing to the ground.

“Don’t!” Scarlett screamed, flabbergasted by how quickly they’d gone from talking to gunshots. “Don’t!”

Rambo barked more orders. His child soldiers dragged Sal and Thunder and prodded her around the side of the church to a fire pit, where they pulled back a blue plastic tarp to reveal separate piles of dry tinder, kindling, and larger sticks. They started tossing leaves, grass, and bark into the ring of stones.

Scarlett, however, was focused solely on Sal. He was lying beside her, his eyes closed, his face wet. She took his hand in hers and squeezed, thinking briefly about how he’d done the same to her last week in the hospital. He squeezed back weakly. His jaw muscles were bunched, as if he was in severe pain, and she had no doubt he was. The bullet had gone into his thigh, just above the knee. Given the amount of blood soaking his pant leg, it looked as if it might have hit a deep artery or vein—and if that was the case, she knew he wouldn’t make it until Danny arrived.

She was losing him, and there was nothing she could do about it. She felt as if she’d been caught up in a powerful mudslide, and all she could do was hang on to something and pray for the best.

She gripped the hemline of her dress with shaking hands and tore upward, creating a slit. She pulled horizontally, parallel with the lower edge, until she’d ripped free a long piece of fabric. She folded the cloth in half, corner to corner. Folded it again and again until she had a makeshift bandage that was roughly three inches wide and several layers thick. “Can you hear me, Sal?” she said softly.

He nodded.

“You’re bleeding a lot. I have a tourniquet. I’m going to tie it around your leg. It’s going to hurt—”

“No.”

“I have to, Sal.”

“It’s too late.”

“Don’t say that.”

His eyes opened. They were filled with rage.

“Help me up,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“Help me get to my feet.”

“You can’t stand. Not with your leg—”

“I’m not going to die lying down.”

“Sal—”

“Help me.”

Fighting back tears, Scarlett moved beside him so he could loop an arm around her neck. She stood, pulling him upright with her, taking half his weight. She didn’t know what she was doing, not really. Her mind was numb; she was just going through the motions. A part of her, a part she didn’t want to recognize, thought maybe she did know. Knew she was helping Sal kill himself.

Rambo, who had been overseeing the fire, saw them and laughed. “Where do you think you are going?”

Scarlett could feel Sal shaking—the stress of trying to stand on one leg.

“I love you,
cara mia,
” he said in a gruff voice. “I’m sorry. I should have been a better husband.”

“I love you too, Sal,” she told him, and now the tears were flowing freely. “Always.”

Rambo barked something to two of his men. They set down the firewood stacked in their arms and started toward them. Sal abruptly shoved Scarlett aside, hard enough she fell to the ground. She stared up at him through the rain and tears and watched as he reached behind his back and took out a pistol that was stuck in the waistband of his pants, against the small of his back.