Page 37 of Soul on Fire
“The mission, sir.” He pushed his finger to his ear, trying to focus on Kline’s static-filled voice.
“Why thefuckdo I have twenty refugee children on board my boat and one missing Lieutenant?”
“You said the mission has priority, right? This was the price. Save those kids and I’d be guided after Majambu. We’re tracking him now.”
“Not like this!” Kline roared. “I don’t think you realize what kind of shit you are in, Elliot! What you have done! Have you gone fucking native?”
Elliot almost threw the radio away, hurled it into the forest. Let the admiral scream at the trees. “Imade the call,” he growled. “You want this guy? This is the way.”
“We have exactly zero time for bullshit. The Agency received intel from their embeds in Syria. The strain there is the same as what’s burning up the Congo. You know what that means.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“So you tell me straight, Lieutenant: are you able to capture this man or not?”
Elliot looked up. Ikolo stared at him over his shoulder.
“Yes, we can. If I didn’t think we could, I wouldn’t be doing this.”
“You’d better fucking make this work, Elliot,” Kline fumed. “And you had better take care of yourself out there. You’re walking into the deadliest place on this planet and going headfirst into a hot zone. Donotget sick out there.”
“Mission has priority, like you said.”
“Get it done.” Kline’s voice faded into static and disappeared in a whine.
Sighing, Elliot ripped his radio off his throat and balled it up, wrapped it around his receiver and shoved it into his pack.
He came up right into the muzzle of a rusted Kalashnikov.
Two rebels appeared from the bush, slinking onto the track. One held his rifle pointed at Ikolo, the other fixed his attention on Elliot. Ikolo spoke quickly, rapid Swahili Elliot struggled to understand. He stared instead into the pitiless eyes of the rebel training his rifle on his forehead. There was a hardness to him, his face hunger-thin and eyes pinched.
Ikolo tried to say he was a doctor, that they were both medical personnel helping people. His hands were up, next to his head, his voice high, almost frantic. The rebel barked something at him, stepped close, and raised his hand as if to slap Ikolo—
Ikolo lunged off the bike, tackling the rebel around his waist and throwing him to the ground. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, Ikolo coming up fast, and landing a one-two-three punch across the rebel’s face before stripping his rifle out of his hands.
As Ikolo lunged, Elliot flew into motion, shoving the rebel’s rifle to the sky as he jumped from the bike and threw a knife strike at the center of his throat. Choking, he stumbled, eyes wide, and Elliot dropped back a half step and swung a roundhouse kick that slammed his boot behind the rebel’s ear. He dropped to the ground like dead weight, not moving.
Ikolo stood over the other rebel, semi-conscious and moaning in the dirt. He held the Kalashnikov in his hands like he knew how to use it. “Take his rifle,” Ikolo said. “We might need it, and it will help us blend in.”
Elliot stripped the rifle and a spare clip of ammunition from the rebel’s back pocket. Ikolo had the bike back up, the rifle slung over his shoulder, and was revving the engine. “Let’s go.”
Ikolo went full speed for several miles, swerving as best he could to avoid the potholes and jumping off craters like they were dirt bike ramps when he couldn’t, jarring Elliot’s spine on the landing.
“Who were they?” Elliot asked, when Ikolo finally slowed.
“Mai-Mai. They said we had entered their territory without permission and the penalty was death.”
“Is this their territory?”
“The forest belongs to no one,” Ikolo said. “Every inch is fought over.”
“I see you know how to fight. You know how to hold that rifle.”
Ikolo revved the bike’s engine again, drowning out Elliot’s voice, and sped down the track.
* * *
They rode all day,never stopping.
