King Solomon's Curse

14

More bullets lanced through the air, sending the other expedition members scrambling for cover. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Nina cried.

‘Militia!’ Eddie shouted back. ‘The smoke — it’s the same shit they were smoking at the checkpoint!’

‘They followed us?’ said Fisher from behind a tree. He was still clutching the camera, out of instinct rather than any conscious intent to film the ambush. ‘All the way here? How?’

‘I don’t fucking care! Fortune! Guns?’

Fortune drew a gleaming nickel-plated automatic from a concealed holster. Paris did the same, though his weapon was considerably less polished. ‘There are more in my bag.’ He pointed at his tent. ‘We will cover you.’

Eddie nodded. ‘How many?’

‘Two nine-millimetres. They are fully loaded, and there are spare magazines.’

The shooting stopped. The Yorkshireman remained still, assessing their unseen attackers. At least three men armed with rifles. Not professional soldiers; the firing had been too indiscriminate. He could handle them — if he could get to a weapon. ‘Okay, I’m moving. Cover!’

Fortune and Paris both unleashed several shots in the direction of the intruders as he scurried for the tent. Someone yelled, but in fright at a near miss rather than pain. The cry told Eddie that the militia were amongst the ruins at the top of the path to the river. The expedition was cut off from the boats…

He put the thought aside. They were currently outgunned, needing to redress the balance before thinking of escape. He ducked into Fortune’s tent. The interior was as neat as its owner, bedroll carefully folded beside a bag. Eddie tugged it open, quickly finding cold metal—

The militia opened up again, single shots giving way to furious bursts of automatic fire. Ringing ricochets screamed off stone, wood splintering. Eddie dropped flat as the nylon wall flapped and puckered with multiple impacts.

He yanked out the guns, a pair of Browning Hi-Powers, and grabbed the spare magazines before crawling back into the open. Howie was nearest to him, but the young man was curled up behind a stump, terrified. Farther away he saw Wemba crouching at a wall, Chumbo beyond him. The latter saw his two guns. ‘Mr Chase! Here!’

‘No, me!’ called Wemba. Eddie was about to throw him a pistol — then on some subconscious reassessment lobbed it the extra distance to Chumbo. Wemba’s face flashed with anger.

Eddie ignored him, certain he had made the right decision when Chumbo caught the weapon and immediately ejected the magazine to check its load before slotting it back into place. He knew what he was doing. ‘We’re armed!’ he called to Paris and Fortune.

‘Good, ’cause we could use some help!’ Paris shouted back. The incoming fire was now concentrated on the two bodyguards, forcing them into cover.

Eddie peeked out from behind a tree. Muzzle flash and flailing undergrowth told him the position of one attacker, about a hundred feet away. He aimed at a point behind the stuttering flower of flame and snapped off two rapid shots. The hidden gunman fell backwards, his AK blazing uselessly at the sky before going silent.

The other attackers rounded on the new threat, but Eddie had already jerked back behind the twisted trunk. Fortune opened fire again, Paris darting into a new position in a half-collapsed doorway and following suit. Chumbo joined in the assault from Eddie’s other side. A man let out a shrill scream. ‘Two down!’ Paris shouted in triumph.

‘More coming,’ warned Fortune. A moment later new rifles spat fire from the direction of the river path.

Eddie held firm behind the tree as rounds cracked past. The new arrivals were blazing away on full auto as they charged through the vegetation. It was the action of the rank amateur or the suicidally overconfident — and the latter turned out to be the case for one of the militia as the Yorkshireman downed him with a headshot. The others with him scattered, aggression instantly turning into panic as they sprayed bullets in all directions.

The defenders maintained their more controlled fire. Another militia man went down with a gargling shriek as Fortune put two bullets into his chest. ‘Whatever they are smoking, they have had too much of it!’ he called to Eddie.

‘I know,’ Eddie replied, running to new cover against the remains of a wall. He had glimpsed a red band around a gunman’s arm, confirming them as members of the Insekt Posse — and they seemed just as stoned as the group at the checkpoint, an uncoordinated rabble learning the hard way what it was like to face professionals. ‘You two go left, me an’ Lenard’ll move right. We’ll create a kill zone, take ’em all down.’

Fortune signalled his agreement, quick hand gestures communicating the plan to Paris. The two men angled away to the left. ‘With me,’ Eddie told Chumbo, going the other way towards the roofless shell of a small building. ‘That hut, get inside and wait for my signal.’ The Congolese hurried in, Eddie continuing past to another broken wall.

The surviving Insekt Posse had found cover of their own, spurts of gunfire cutting through the shadow-shrouded city — but their shots were aimed at where Eddie’s team had been, not their new locations. The Englishman looked over the wall. Three, four, five shooters, and from this angle he could see two of them clearly enough to target.

‘Lenard,’ he called quietly to Chumbo. ‘Can you see any of ’em?’ A nod in reply. ‘Okay, aim at him and get ready.’

Guessing that Chumbo would have a bead on the most exposed enemy, he locked on to the man with more cover. Another militia member raised his head—

‘Now!’ Eddie yelled. He pulled the trigger, a pinkish burst of brain matter exploding from his target’s skull. No need to double-tap that one. He instantly switched his aim to the other man as his comrades released their own shots. Chumbo’s quarry ducked — only to spin and fall in a spray of blood as Eddie’s next shot tore a ragged wound in his neck.

‘Target down!’ Fortune shouted; he had eliminated another of the militia. Paris only scored a wound rather than a kill, but the animalistic scream that followed told them the man would not be getting back up to fight, or probably anything else. ‘I think there is only one left.’

‘Make that two,’ Eddie replied as a new rifle opened up, full-auto fire spraying wildly across the ruins. A voice bellowed incoherent obscenities. He waited for the attacker’s magazine to run dry, then snapped off two more rapid shots. A pained yell, then the obscenities returned, though now fearful rather than furious. ‘Okay, let’s move in and finish ’em. We’ll—’

He broke off at new voices, farther away — but closing. ‘Oh, shit!’ gasped Fisher. ‘There’s more of them!’

One voice in particular stood out. It was deeper than the others, older, more commanding. Eddie couldn’t make out the unseen man’s orders, but when Fortune spoke again it was with a rare edge of worry. ‘They have a leader,’ he warned. ‘He is telling his men to spread out and pin us down.’

Eddie glanced at the looming structure behind them. ‘If they push us back to the palace, we’ll be trapped on the cliff.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Chumbo.

The Yorkshireman ran through their options — and realised they were desperately limited. Staying low, he crossed first to Chumbo’s position to tell him to follow, then back to the camp. ‘Fortune, Paris — over here.’

‘What’s happening?’ Nina asked as the two mercenaries returned.

‘We’ve got one shot at getting out of here,’ her husband told her. ‘Take out the leader.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Wemba.

Eddie listened. The man in charge of the militia was still shouting orders in French. ‘Sounds like he’s the only one who knows what he’s doing. Get rid of him, and we might be able to make a break for the boats while they’re confused.’

‘Might be?’ said Fisher unhappily.

‘It’s better than sitting here waiting for them to surround us.’

‘What — what if we surrender?’ The director pointed at the group’s packs. ‘We’ve still got those dollars. We could try to pay them off?’

Fortune shook his head grimly. ‘They will be angry now we have killed some of them. They will want revenge more than money.’

‘Then maybe you shouldn’t have shot at them!’ Lydia cried.

‘They shot at us first!’ Nina reminded her.

Eddie listened again. The leader had reached a ruined building a hundred and fifty feet away, still issuing commands. Scattered movement amongst the underbrush revealed that his men had not yet reached their positions. ‘If we’re doing it, it’ll have to be now. Fortune, Paris, Lenard — you up for it?’

‘I think we can do it if we are fast,’ Fortune replied. ‘If we go to the left of that building,’ he pointed out a ruin, ‘it will give cover from everyone on the right.’

‘Just what I was thinking.’ He reloaded. ‘Okay, everybody with a gun makes a run for the boss. You see anyone ahead of you, shoot ’em. If it’s the guy in charge, shoot him more! The rest of you, split off and get to the river. Masson, Cretien, carry Jay.’ He glanced at Fisher, who was still bearing the camera, a red light telling him it was recording. ‘Leave that fucking thing, will you? An Emmy won’t do you any good if you’re dead.’

Fisher reluctantly put down the Sony. Paris checked the overgrown ruins. ‘They’re still moving.’

‘Now or never,’ said Eddie. He went to the end of a wall and raised his gun, the other armed men following. ‘Okay, on three.’ He took a deep breath. ‘One, two—’

A gunshot — from behind him. ‘Drop your guns!’

Wemba shoved Rivero into Kimba, sending both men staggering, as he brought the small revolver he had just fired into the air to bear on the rest of the group. ‘Drop them!’ Wemba repeated. ‘Or I shoot!’

Eddie knew he couldn’t turn quickly enough to outgun the treacherous porter. But nor was he willing to give up his weapon so easily. He held position, waiting to see if any of the others would give him the moment’s distraction he needed to take a shot…

Chumbo made a move — but it was the wrong one. He charged at Wemba, bringing up his gun—

Wemba fired first.

A wet rosette burst open above Chumbo’s heart. He staggered, managing one final step before collapsing into the dirt.

Behind him, Fortune’s own gleaming gun rose—

Another shot erupted from the revolver. The round tore through Fortune’s sleeve, the tall man lurching backwards as he clutched at the wound. ‘I–I said, drop them!’ shouted Wemba. His aim flicked between Eddie and Paris, challenging them to make a move.

The Englishman reluctantly let his Browning fall. Paris regarded the injured Fortune with dismay, then did the same. ‘Kick them away!’ Wemba ordered.

‘Cretien,’ said Fortune, jaw tight with pain. ‘What is this? I trusted you!’

‘I know, I–I am sorry,’ Wemba replied. ‘But I need money, and they… they paid much more than you.’ He called out to the militia. ‘C’est moi, c’est Cretien! Je les ai capturés! Ne tirez pas!’

‘You son of a bitch!’ Nina growled.

Lydia stared in horror at Chumbo’s still-twitching body. ‘Don’t… don’t make things worse,’ she whimpered.

Eddie glanced into the ruins. The Insekt Posse cautiously emerged from cover at a command from their leader, AKs raised. ‘I think it’s about to get worse, whatever we do.’

The militia surrounded their prisoners, forcing them at gunpoint to kneel with their hands behind their heads. Fortune gasped as he lifted his palm from his injury. Eddie quickly assessed the wound, seeing that his friend had lived up to his name: while his clothing was ruined, he had suffered only a flesh wound, the bullet’s heat even cauterising it.

Wemba spoke nervously to the new arrivals. None replied, regarding him with deep suspicion. But nor did they threaten him directly, apparently awaiting further orders.

They soon came. The deep voice that had organised the rabble drew closer, in conversation with another man. The encircling militia parted to let their commander through. Eddie risked turning his head, wanting to see his opponents.

He got a double shock when he did.

One was John Brice, the dishevelled Englishman giving him a mocking smile as he passed. He went to Wemba and held out a hand, the porter reaching into a pocket — the one into which he had thrust something when Eddie startled him the day before — and handing over a small metal tube.

The other was someone Eddie thought was dead.

‘Mukobo…’ he said, shocked. The reaction from the expedition’s other Congolese members was equally horrified.

Philippe Mukobo regarded each of them in turn with a threatening stare. The documentary team responded with uncertain fear, no one holding his gaze for more than a moment. Kimba didn’t even dare look him in the eye. Paris and Fortune both held out for just long enough to establish that they were the defenders of the others before following suit.

Mukobo’s hostility, however, was concentrated on one man. ‘Chase,’ he growled to Eddie. One hand went to his holstered gold-plated automatic. ‘I remember you. You captured me… twice. But now… I have captured you.’

He drew the gun — and placed its muzzle against Eddie’s forehead.