Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 2 (24 page)

They had carried the ivory for a mile when they came out of the forest onto a trail wide enough for a vehicle to pass. Up the road, under the eyes of eight of The General’s rebels, a mud-caked white truck sat. Five African men stood behind the empty bed of the truck—three of them armed—their rifles pointed at the dirt. The other two men each wore pistols in holsters, but didn’t have the look of fighters. They were both thick around the middle, with soft faces, and eyes that didn’t linger for more than a moment.

One of the soft-faced men called a greeting and both of them smiled. Their gunmen wore expressionless faces and cautiously watched The General’s men, as if they might be a threat.

The General said something in Swahili, the lingua franca of East Africa. Austin knew it by its sound, but understood only a few words.

Botu, The General’s second in command ordered that the tusks be piled in the bed of the truck. Austin followed the line and stacked his tusks among the others. Not knowing what to do next, he meandered a short distance back down the road and stopped beside Sander and Wei. In a low voice, Austin asked, “What’s going on?”

Shaking his head, Sander said, “I don’t understand all of it. They’re switching between Swahili and Bantu.”

Wei harrumphed, turned, and walked into the woods, headed back to camp.

Sander said, “That’s The General’s man from Burundi. He has word on Tian.”

At last, a ransom was going to be paid. Austin felt a tinge of hope for his own situation. “Aren’t the three Chinese together?”

“Yes, but Tian is more important than the other two. Min and Wei are just grunts, as far as I know. Maybe the company won’t pay for them.”

The man from Burundi passed a pouch to The General.

“What’s that?” Austin asked.

“Payment,” answered Sander. “Looks like Tian is leaving. Just in time for him, I’d say.”

More talk followed. The General and his man from Nairobi started to raise their voices. They gestured.

Austin needed no interpretation. “What are they pissed about?”

Shaking his head, Sander said, “Not sure. I think it’s about the price on the ivory. It’s not what they agreed.”

Austin shrank a few steps back toward the trees. Sander did the same. Neither wanted to be too far from cover if tempers led to bullets.

“Something about Ebola,” said Sander. “The market for ivory is drying up.”

“A lot, I guess,” Austin observed. “The General looks really pissed.”

More yelling followed. Then came a sudden stop. All of the gunmen were tense. The General turned to his men and yelled an order. His soldiers immediately started unloading the truck. The merchant protested weakly. The General dismissed him.

Sander said, “This is us.” He got into the line forming up at the back of the truck. Austin followed.

When Sander and Austin passed by The General, he shouted, “Where is the China man?”

Sander pointed back up the mountain.

The General cursed and jammed a finger into Sander’s chest. “You and Ransom will carry his tusks back to the camp.”

Sander nodded.

Austin nodded, wondering how he was going to manage two small tusks and more. But that only lasted a moment.

Botu pushed Sander and Austin to the front of the line and said something to the man in the back of the truck passing out the tusks. The man laughed, found one of the largest tusks in the pile and handed it to Austin. Austin took the tusk and laid its curved hundred pounds over his shoulder. He looked at the trees and the slope. It would be a long hike with the burden.

Botu shouted an order and roughly turned Austin so that his empty shoulder was facing the truck. The man in the truck bed laid another tusk of a similar size across Austin’s shoulder and Austin swayed.

“Go,” Botu ordered.

With two guards on their heels, Austin and Sander bore their burdens up the mountain with the greatest of effort, stopping every fifty feet or so to lean against a tree and catch their breath. Laying the tusks down for a rest wasn’t an option they were afforded.

When they finally entered the camp, it was immediately obvious that tempers were escalating. The General was yelling. Botu was cursing. The men were huddling around the camp’s center, near the log where Tian’s foot had been hacked off.

The guards urged Austin and Sander over to the hut that contained The General’s collection of tusks. As they passed the hostage hut, Austin saw Wei squatting by the entrance, his hand pressed to a wound on his head. He had new bruises on his face and blood dripped from his mouth. Tian was dead. His body had been dragged out of the hut and was laying face down in the dirt

Austin whispered, “What happened?”

The guard behind shoved. “Move.”

Covered in sweat, trying to breathe enough air to continue, Austin hurried toward the hoard hut and nearly fell through the door. He crashed into the pile of tusks and let his heavy pair fall from his shoulders. The guard behind him shouted something angry, picking up on the mood in the camp. He hit Austin twice in the back with the butt of the AK-47, and bent over to inspect the tusks that Austin dropped.

“They’re fine,” said Austin, pointing at the tusks, hoping he would see no chips, no cracks.

The guard glared at him.

Eyes down, Austin retreated from the hut and let Sander drop his load.

A guard pointed at the hostage hut and said, “Go.”

Austin needed no further encouragement. Worn out from the hike up the mountain, but light on his feet without his burden, he hurried over to the hut, stepped over Tian, and sat down beside Wei.

A moment later, Sander squatted down beside Austin.

“What’s happening?” Austin asked.

Sander spoke to Wei in Swahili. Wei, in an unusual gush of words, pointed at the mass of rebels gathering at the center of camp. He came to a sudden stop and put his head back in his hands.

“What?” Austin asked.

Sander’s face grew long with worry. “When The General came up to fetch Tian, he walked into the hut and saw Min kissing him.”

Through his surprise, all Austin could say was, “What?”

Nodding, Sander said, “On the lips.”

“Tian died while we were on our errand. Min was saying his goodbyes.”

Austin pointed at the rebel mob responding to The General’s exhortations with raucous howls and jeers. “What’s this, then?”

“The General hates homosexuals.”

Sander and Austin stopped talking and watched.

A moment later, The General burst out of the mob, his men flowing behind him. In one hand, he held a bloody machete. In the other, he held Min’s head, still running blood from the severed neck.

Austin flinched back when The General ran up in front of him and the other two hostages. He pushed Min’s face up against Austin’s face, dripping blood down on Austin’s clothes. He mashed Min’s face into Sanders’ face and did the same to Wei. When he’d made that point, he stood tall and yelled, “If you weak women want to lie with a man, then you will lie with Min!” He dropped the head in the mud in front of Austin and turned away.

Hadi knelt beside Najid’s bed. “Every day you get worse.”

Najid knew Hadi was right. He didn’t want to accept it, because he had no plan to handle it. Dr. Kassis was killed when the Americans bombed the compound. The two doctors he’d hired as assistants to Dr. Kassis, though Najid thought of them as backup number one and backup two, were both on the yacht when it got hit. They were dead. Now Najid had no doctors.

“I have contacted my wife’s cousin in Dubai. His compound is as much a fortress as this place, but America will not bomb Dubai, especially since they believe you are dead.”

“Are you certain of that?” Najid asked.

“On both counts,” Hadi nodded.

“This cousin has a doctor?”

“More than that,” Hadi said, “a few doctors and enough equipment for a small hospital. There is nothing you need that can’t be done there.”

“Surgery on my leg?”

“Without a doubt.”

“What does this cousin want?” asked Najid.

“You and I may go. No one else.”

Najid didn’t like that option, but he accepted with a nod.

“We must both be tested prior to entering the compound.”

“For Ebola?” Najid asked.

“Yes.”

Najid nodded again. “What else?”

“Ten kilograms.”

“Of gold?”

“Yes.”

“How will we get to Dubai?”

“It may cost us a few more kilos, but I believe I can arrange it.”

Najid thought about the injuries to his leg, felt the pain of the infection, and the fever that had followed. If he didn’t get medical help, he would die and the pile of gold in his bunker and in the hold of the burned out yacht would be of no use to him. “Promise what you must. Make this happen.”

Salim woke to the rhythmic thump of cars crossing the expansion joints of the four-lane highway overpass. He’d fallen asleep the night before on a concrete embankment beneath the bridge, near some other people doing the same.

He sat up feeling alone, feeling abandoned in a country he’d chosen to turn his back on, a country that didn’t seem to give a care about anything he’d done or who he was. The country had bigger problems than irrelevant Salim Pitafi.

His stomach growled and he reached into his pocket to pull out his cash and coins. He laid the coins carefully on the sloping concrete lest they roll away—he almost laughed at the irony of it. He had a jar on his dresser at home where he dumped coins from his pocket so he wouldn’t be burdened with the inconvenience of their jingle in his pocket, not to mention the potential of their little milled edges scratching his cell phone. That beloved piece of technology had been the hub of his high school social life, and in the years since, the hub of everything.

Salim gulped back a piteous sob and resolved not to lose his composure, or lose himself in nostalgia less than three months old. He’d put himself in this predicament. He was taking hard steps to resolve it.

Two dollars and thirty-seven cents in coins. Now the formerly disposable annoyances would pay for a microwavable burrito, or a couple of donuts at the truck stop that sat on a corner adjacent to the overpass.

He counted through his bills. One hundred and eleven dollars. He guessed he could eat on maybe ten dollars a day, less if he were careful. McDonald’s had a dollar menu. One double cheeseburger and a refillable dollar soda would be an easy path to stuffing himself for two bucks. Two such meals a day might be enough to keep him going. Hell, if he drank enough soda he might put on weight for four dollars a day.

As dire as his meager bankroll seemed, and as poor as his sleeping accommodations felt, at least starvation wasn’t yet an issue. His immediate problems were transportation and communication.

Salim looked at the truck stop again as his stomach growled. The truck stop might have showers for the truckers. Salim looked down at his clothes and sniffed himself to determine whether he stank.

“You don’t smell any worse than the rest of us.”

Salim turned toward the voice.

A boy sat up next to a sleeping girl, both about his age. Both had backpacks. They didn’t look homeless, more like hikers who’d wandered out of the forest. Salim smiled. “I was thinking about getting a shower.”

“They charge five dollars for a shower and they only give you ten minutes of water.”

“Five dollars for ten minutes?” It was a lot of money to pay, given the state of his assets.

“Yup.” The guy crab-crawled across the sloping concrete between them and extended a hand to shake. “I’m Victor.”

Salim took Victor’s hand and shook it. “Salim Pitafi.”

“You on the road?” Victor asked.

Salim shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Traveling somewhere?” He looked at the heavy concrete bridge beams overhead. “Nowhere to sleep?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Salim said. “I want to get home to Denver.”

Victor gestured at Salim’s blue duffle bag. Not the kind someone would normally use for travel. It seemed better suited for hauling sweaty shorts to and from the gym. “You don’t look like you planned to get there on foot.”

“No,” Salim said, wondering how much to say. “I flew in before the airports closed down.”

“The bus lines shut down, too,” said Victor.

“Ugh,” said Salim. He hadn’t even thought to take a bus to Denver. Now it didn’t matter.  “When?” he asked.

“A few days ago.”

“What about Amtrak?” Salim asked. “Did they shut down the trains, too?”

Victor nodded and pointed at the dozens of people under the bridge.

Salim looked around. Most of them weren’t there when he fell asleep.

“Lots of us got stranded.”

Laughing, because it seemed better than letting any other emotion win out, Salim said, “So, what are people doing? Living under bridges? Walking home?”

“Yeah, kind of,” said Victor. “But there’s another way.”

“What’s that?”

“The truckers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of them will let you ride in their trailers when they’re empty.”

Salim perked up and looked at the truck stop, surveying the dozens of tractor-trailers parked behind it. “No kidding?”

“That’s why most of us are here,” said Victor. “Me and Janet rolled in last night. We’re on our way from Montgomery to Phoenix. The guy who dropped us here is heading north to Oklahoma City. We’re going to see if we can get a ride west.”

“What?” Salim asked. “You just go hang around the truck stop and ask truckers for a ride?”

Victor laughed. “Yeah, pretty much. Turns out most of them are pretty good folks. When the airports and bus lines shut down, I guess some of them decided to step up and help folks out. Lots of them do it now.”

Feeling hopeful, Salim looked back at the truck stop. “Thank you, Victor. Thank you very much.”