The Watchers (31 page)
“Serial killer?”
“Actually, I understated that. Not only are they the originals, but they are the most prolific masters in their twisted field. I mean, none of the poster-boy murderers you have probably heard of on television ever killed with the relish and efficiency of the least junior Brother of the Scythe. These men kill because they are taught to enjoy the act of taking life with an almost sexual pleasure. While that is not unique to them, add the fact that their killing volume also causes them to climb the ladder of a very elaborate and ancient chain of command. So even as they become desensitized, requiring more and more victims, they acquire ever greater ability to gain access to them, then to escape detection and perfect their so-called skills.”
“I had no idea . . .”
“Wait, DylanâI'm not through. It is very important that I finish telling you this, and that you listen very closely. You see, the Scythians have one vastly preferred kind of victim. And that is a member of my Sisterhood. Iya Agbas. They track and slaughter us with a relish that rivals that of the SS and the Jews, if you forgive my imprudent analogy.”
“I don't see the connection.”
“You can't see it because the war between us is too ancient and distant for anyone to see. It is like the chicken or the egg.
“The Hatfields and McCoys,” added Dylan pensively.
“What is that?”
“Oh, it's an ancient feud between two families that became quite famous from the American South. One of them, the Hatfields, were ancestors of mine. Their hatred became synonymous for the kind of feud that was so old and buried in myth that even its participants forgot how it started.”
“Except, unlike that example,” Okoye pointed out, “ours is not morally ambiguous. We know who started it. We know who the evil side is. But we do not know much more. All we know is that since the dawn of our known history, the Iya Agba have fought the evil of the Scythians, and the Scythians have murdered as many of our kind as they could catch. Now, there is one more dimension I have not touched on.”
“You mean it gets worse?” he said.
“It does. You see, it's not only the volume of the Scythians' bloodthirstiness which makes them so evil. It is the underlying reason they kill. Or should I say the underlying function of their murders.”
“Didn't you already say that? The almost sexual bloodlust?”
“Actually, that turns out to be merely a means toward the end. A pretext for the less initiated. We learned the horrible truth long ago, from watching demons converge on their dying victims like sharks in a rampage. Dylan, you must realize that we do not like to even speak of such things. I will try to say this quickly and be done with it.”
He turned in his hammock to face her, amazed that any revelation could repel her so strongly. She breathed in calmly, seemingly gathering strength for the disclosure.
“They are actually
feeding
the evil ones. Do not ask me how or why. All I know is what we have seen with our very own . . . eyes, if you will. It as though the demons are feeding on the souls, or the residue, of the dying process. It seems the Scythians are their feeders, their gatherers of food.”
“And this ancestral hatred of the Iya Agba,” he said, almost explaining it to himself, “is why they feared Abby enough to coerce me into killing her?”
“Exactly. They are deathly afraid of her not only advancing in her gifts, but answering the questions you and I are solving right this very minute. Because with every piece of the puzzle we discover, the Sisterhood regains a little of its former strength.”
“No wonder they're so intent on stopping us.”
“Indeed. They will not stop until they kill us, or until you and Abby finish her quest. And for that to succeed, she will need a godly warrior. Something you have yet to learn.”
BENIN CITY MILITIA HEADQUARTERS
âAN HOUR EARLIER
“My name is Saronu.”
“Mine is Motumbe.”
“And mine, Kofu.”
“Yes, you have all three confessed to your names repeatedly. And for the record, we believe you. But what you've yet to tell us isâwho else was with you in that forest?”
“God Almighty was with us,” said Motumbe with a coy smile.
“Yes, He certainly was,” rejoined Kofu. “He granted us perfect weather, right up until the end, and delightful fellowship.”
“I'm speaking of human encounters, if you please.”
“Well, we met you, right at the end of our journey,” said Saronu. “And by the way, who might you be? You seem to be American, if my ear is correct. What is your authority to detain us, least of all interrogate us in this manner?”
“How spunky of you to ask. However, I will be asking the questions today.”
“Couldn't you at least introduce yourself?” asked Motumbe. “After all, your proper name couldn't really be, as we overheard you called in the helicopter,
Shadow Leader
?”
Hearing himself addressed by his operational moniker caused the man to leap up, his eyes bulging with fury, and slap Motumbe across the face. A hard slap, which sent the woman and the chair to which she was handcuffed crashing into the wall behind them.
“We've committed no crime!” Kofu shouted at the man. “You cannot do this to us. We were hiking through the jungle. That is our right. It is not our responsibility to account for our lack of provisions or packing gear. We were walking briskly and expected to meet some sisters of ours that afternoon. If we were on a wrong trail, then surely that was our problem.”
The man grudgingly walked behind the interrogation table and shoved Motumbe's chair back upright again.
“Nor must we surrender to anyone, especially as we are women alone in a wilderness area,” said Saronu. “That applies even when the chase begins with a helicopter. Nor did it change when you people added squads on foot, and dogs too. If you want to chase innocent women through the wilderness, don't expect them to stop and offer themselves up. You should know the rule of jungle travelâyou hide until someone is known to be friendly.”
“Especially right after one of the worst massacres in our nation's history,” Motumbe said sullenly.
“For the record, ladies, you are being held as suspects and material witnesses in the disappearances of Abigail Sherman, Solodra Okoye, and Lloyd Sanders. Two of whom are American citizens. Hence my jurisdictional authority, which, I assure you, is quite real, having been personally granted by the Minister of the Interior of the great nation of Nigeria.”
“And we've told you,” replied Saronu, “that we have neither abducted nor harmed any of the people you named, in any way.”
Shadow Leader inhaled heavily, like a man laboring for breath. He reached down, pulled out a large chrome revolver, and laid it on the table with a heavy metallic clank.
“Last chance,” he said wearily. “Where are they now?”
Ten, twenty, and finally thirty seconds passed without a single word from any of the three women. Wearing a disgusted smirk, Shadow Leader stood, picked up the revolver, and sighted it with a practiced swiftnessâright at the center of Saronu's forehead.
His other hand then appeared, and the women gasped.
It was holding a scythe blade.
Just then a door opened loudly behind them. The scythe disappeared behind his back.
“Hold on, sir,” called a bold African voice. The man swaggered into the room. He was large, muscular, and wore a perfectly tailored uniform of the Nigerian Army. “Why don't you let me do the honors.”
“Why? I have authority.”
“I know you do, but this is an official governmental facility. It would look far better if we simply allowed me to finish what you so ably started. With you completely out of sight. I won't need the blade, of course, but I can assure you I'll get the job done right.”
Shadow Leader's eyes narrowed at the blade reference. The two men stared at each other. An almost palpable coldness seemed to chill the air between them.
Finally, Shadow Leader broke contact and walked away.
“Fine. You do the honors,” he said before disappearing through the same back door.
The officer did not waste a moment before turning to regard the women through heavily lidded, hateful eyes.
And yet something about the man seemed to put the prisoners at ease. They glanced up and down and around his figure, and faint smiles began to appear on their faces. Even when the man picked up the gun, checked its chamber for bullets, then cocked it, they did not seem fearful in the least.
“Prisoners, I am with the Nigerian People's Army, and I assure you that I have the authority to act according to my own discretion,” he said in a voice dripping with menace. “Your sentence has already been decided, and it is about to be carried out. Now stand and follow me.”
He led the three out of the room and into a bleak prison courtyard. As soon as the door was shut, he leaned toward them and whispered, “I know you are brave women,” he said, “but you had better be prepared to scream like you never have before. Now kneel.”
All three women knelt in the dirt, with their faces low to the ground. No blindfolds were provided as he was an executioner's team of one. At last, he raised up his gun and then lowered it swiftly in Saronu's face.
“Where are they?” he asked in a suddenly kinder voice.
“At our Eredo safe house. Just downriver from the first house, where it meets the rampart.”
He nodded. “Now scream for your lives.”
A shot cracked in the humid air. Then another. And a third.
The officer inclined his head to the left, indicating with a fierce look a side door left ajar.
The women needed no additional urging. They stumbled to their feet, sprinted to the door, and disappeared through its crooked frame.
As soon as they were gone, the officer walked slowly back into the building where Shadow Leader awaited him in a conference room.
“They're gone,” he said, quite accurately.
“Yes, and so am I,” said Shadow Leader. “Taking off for a long canoe trip. Down the creek to the Eredo Rampart. Ever heard of the place?”
“I have. But why go there?”
“It's where our satellite picked up the escapees' boat, washed up.”
Shadow Leader turned on his heels and began to walk out.
“Best be careful,” the Nigerian called out after him. “It's quite the swamp down there. Better bring a lot of men.”
“I'm going alone.”
“You're joking. You'll never make it.”
“ColonelâColonel Shawkey, is it? I was belly-flopping through Laos when you and the Nigerian brothers were still stealing dash from your mamas at corner checkpoints,” Shadow Leader snarled. “I'm through with your incompetent teams of teenaged machete wavers. I'm going in myself, and there
will
be a body count.”
ONE MILE SOUTH OF FIRST SAFE HOUSE
â THREE HOURS LATER
An idle observer would have had to stand within thirty yards of the insertion point, and even then with an unobstructed view in strong daylight, to make out what was taking place.
Silent inflating into the shape of a Kodiak boat, the large rubber sheath lay camouflaged in an interweaving pattern consisting of eight shades of green. Shadow Leader walked over to the creek's edge in a ghillie suit of the same design. Even his face and hand paint bore identical hues.
He was so well concealed that, running down to the boat, he appeared like little more than an undulation in the jungle backdrop. His intrusion resembled the blowing of a stiff breeze against the underbrush more than the passing silhouette of a warrior.
He patted his trunk and limbs as a last-minute weapons check. He would travel light. A fairly well stocked combat bag was strapped to the boat, but on his person he carried a relatively light load. A sniper rifle, three handguns of differing ranges and calibers, three grenades and an equal number of knives stashed in various pockets and Velcroed sleeves. No radio headpiece or any of that high-tech stuff other than a pair of infrared goggles, which was a point of pride. He had a last-ditch radio stowed away on the Kodiak. None of that battlefield GPS stuff either. Finally, he had a map and a compass and solid briefing about the terrain.
That was all he needed.
And of course a well-oiled, sharpened sickle bladeâa
scythe
as he preferred to call itâdangled from his belt.
After all, this was in part an amped-up grudge mission. Not the best-advised strategy from a tactical perspective, but that wasn't the point. It was also a man's desperate bid to save his own life with a single grandstanding achievement.
He was well downstream from where they believed his prey had put in, so the Kodiak's girth was not an issue. Besides, a foot of rain had fallen since then, and every waterway within a hundred miles was now swollen to twice the previous day's volume. With this nimble craft and its silent but powerful trolling motor, the extra water was a definite advantage.
He jumped in, turned and waved off his men. At first, there was no need of the motor, even with its quiet propeller. He would need it later for steering more than for propulsion. His strong first push had sent him into a deliciously quiet glide, which the onshore men did not wait to watch. Their superior disappeared against the Kodiak's floor, lying prone for his first few, vulnerable moments as the support crew melted back into the jungle.
Time elapsed: four minutes, thirty-two seconds.
Three hundred miles above his waterborne path, a KH-12 keyhole satellite peered through the cloud cover with lenses using near invisible, thermal infrared plus radar enhancement to scan the targets' hiding place at a resolution four feet across.
The original source for this satellite-tasking request lay buried under layers of highly classified communications channels. It would have taken months for even an experienced navigator of America's covert landscape to discover the official with whom it had originated.