Page 19 of Soul on Fire
There was a long pause over the radio. He waited, picturing Kline’s face. Down the alley, Jumper came out of the shadows again, shock on his face.What the fuck, he mouthed. Elliot nodded.
“Roger, Black Mamba,” Kline said, his voice tight like he was strangling his rage, the same way he’d sounded when he was tearing into Elliot. “Confirm you have one evac with EHF/EVD, condition critical?”
“Affirmative, Beachside.”
“Standby.”
Someone at the Agency was going to get fucked up. Kline didn’t play with holding intelligence back. It was something Elliot respected about the man. He never played games with Elliot or his men, and he wouldn’t stand for games being played with them.
Ashley glared at him, her arms folded, her boots inch-deep in brown water and raw sewage thrown in the alley behind the stores. Elliot couldn’t look at her, not now.
“Black Mamba, Beachside,” his radio spat. “We’re evacing you through the backup L-Z with secondary identifiers. Humanitarian extract. Head to Gisenyi and cross the border as soon as you can. We’re working the channels here to expedite the crossing. Maintain cover, copy?”
“Wilco, Beachside. You better have something for this guy when we get back. Will radio check when Oscar-Tango-Mike. Black Mamba out.”
He met Ashley’s glare with one of his own, staring her down. “You got a jeep?”
“We do, but it’s out of gas.”
“Then you’d better find some.”
“There isn’t any! There’s nothing in Goma anymore! The rebels have moved in and they’re taking it all, and with the borders shut down and the city surrounded, nothing is getting through!”
He nodded to Jumper. “Hood, Cole, any activity out front?”
“Nothing but people getting the fuck out of here. Everyone who can is packing up and leaving town.”
“I’m sending Jumper up to relieve you. You two, find fuel. Their jeep needs gas. We’re going to Gisenyi.”
Jumper doglegged around the alley, avoiding the CIA station, and hooked back to Hood and Cole. He heard Jumper report he was in position, and then Hood and Cole say they were off on a fuel hunt.
“Now,” he said, turning back to Ashley. “Show me your jeep. And bring me all your tarps.”
* * *
Elliot riggeda plastic coffin-like tube for Peter, walling off a section of the jeep’s rear in a cocoon, layers and layers of plastic sheeting and tarp creating a tunnel for him to slide in. He duct-taped it all shut, save for breathing slits cut behind where Peter’s head would lay. It was the only place he could think where the guy couldn’t vomit, shit, or bleed out all over them.
He wasn’t trained for this. He was trained for everything—literally everything else—but not this. Not evacuating a CIA officer down with Ebola and smuggling him across an international border on a covert mission. Shouldn’t this be the CDC’s problem? Or the CIA’s?
But then the CIA would have to explain why they were in Goma. And why their newspaper didn’t actually exist, or hadn’t turned out a single piece of news, or hadn’t registered with any journalistic agencies anywhere.
He glared at Ashley as she and her people carefully bundled Peter in a plastic poncho, bleached until it stank and nearly gave Elliot a contact high. Ashley and her team wore gloves and masks, courtesy of Doc Smalls, but even Doc Smalls was staying out of this. He’d had a hard frown on his tight-lipped face since Elliot had radioed the situation in.
Peter slid into his plastic coffin without complaint, sighing when his head hit the pillow Elliot stuffed in there at the last minute. Elliot pulled up the closure and taped it closed. Now they had their Ebola butterfly in his cocoon. Better not fucking break out.
“All right, everyone in. Jumper, take the wheel.”
Hood and Cole had returned with a jerry can full of stolen fuel, siphoned from unattended motorbikes scattered in the alleys. It was enough to get to the border. After that, either the admiral or the backpack Elliot carried would get them across.
Elliot sat up front, guiding Jumper. Hood and Cole crouched behind the passenger seats, keeping an eye out the windows, weapons low and ready, with Doc Smalls between them. Ashley and the man who had chewed the pencil sat in the rear seats, and the rest of the CIA officers lay flat in the back cargo hold beneath their backpacks, trying not to touch Peter’s cocoon. Strapped to each officer’s body, at their ankles and around their bellies, were the hard drives, CDs, and flash drives they’d recovered before destroying everything else.
Chukudus and motorbikes clogged the roads, already overfull with people streaming out of the city. Half headed south, trying to get to the lake, or to Bukavu, or farther. And the other half headed for the border, begging, pleading, and screaming for the chance to cross into Rwanda.
Rwandan border guards stood shoulder to shoulder, rifles gripped tight in their hands, ballistic vests and helmets strapped on. The border gate behind them was made of thick steel topped with coils of concertina wire. Rwandan guards stared straight ahead, ignoring the pleading hands reaching through the fence.
“This is a fucking mess,” Jumper mumbled. Three thousand people were jammed between him and the border gate. “How do we get through?”
Elliot swallowed, bile crawling up his throat, an ugly truth bubbling out of his soul. “You and Ashley,” he snapped, “get up on the jeep’s roof. Get the guard’s attention with this.” He shoved the backpack to Jumper.
