Page 47 of Soul on Fire
“The LRA has aligned with ADF forces in the past—”
“That’s insane. One is a hard-core Islamist group and the other is a fundamentalist Christian personality cult.”
“This is Africa. They both hate the same things: America and everything Western. That makes them allies.” Ikolo peered over the roots again. “They look like they are patrolling the track.”
They didn’t look like they were doing anything other than smoking and fucking around. They weren’t in any formation and none of them had their weapons ready. They moved with the same cocky swagger Elliot saw the world over: an arrogant man given an automatic weapon who thought it made him powerful. “They’re not patrolling anything.”
“Not to your American eyes. But they’re standing and they’re facing the track. Before this village there’s a bend and a hill and travelers approach this village blind. We’re not silent on our motorbike, are we?”
They hadn’t passed anyone, not since leaving Matenda. Not since talking to the man who’d fled from these fighters.
“They’re waiting to ambush us,” Ikolo breathed. “You’ve seen how information spreads in the forest. Keise knew about us before we arrived. Majambu must know he’s being followed. The ADF are stuck in the northeast, but the LRA have always been able to move silently across the Congo. He could have asked for help and protection, and they would have given it if they believed he was on a mission that aligned with their goals. Keise said Majambu was sighted here. Do you think it’s a coincidence he was here and this village was destroyed? Or that the LRA are here?”
Elliot finally nodded, the pieces making sense. He wasn’t in his own world anymore. He had to listen to Ikolo, rely on him, on his expertise. “Majambu may have coordinated with them and ordered them to stop us. They might know where he is, or where he’s going. We need to interrogate them.”
Ikolo readied his Kalashnikov. “What’s your plan?”
Elliot hesitated. “Are you willing to use that? You’re a doctor. Haven’t you taken the Hippocratic oath?”
“Outside of America, we use the Declaration of Geneva from the World Medical Association. And I pledged to consecrate my life to the service of humanity, and to maintain respect for human life. I don’t consider defending my people from murderers—or defendingyou—to be any conflict with my pledge. You see what they’ve done here.”
His jaw moved, but the words wouldn’t come, and he stared at Ikolo, breathing softly. There was a core inside Ikolo that burned brighter than the sun, something fierce that ran through him and defined him. Elliot had lived in the gray areas of special operations his entire adult life, conducted missions in the shadows and made calls that kept him up at night, had him reach for another drink before he went to sleep. His center had been shifting, the white-knuckled grip he’d kept on his certainties in life growing slack. There were days and nights he spent adrift, lost at sea in the doldrums of his soul with no idea where to turn.
What choices were right? Was he the man he wanted to be? Was he the man he’d wanted to be when he walked into that recruiter’s office?
Ikolo was the most certain man he’d ever met. He knew himself in every way, didn’t shy away from any part of his soul. His convictions were absolute, hard-earned beliefs born from action, from a past Elliot could only see hints of.
He wanted to lean into those convictions, lay down his burdens on Ikolo’s bedrock. Trust in his strength and that stolid, steady core.
Instead he nodded and peered once more over the twisted roots. The fighters were still there, still smoking. He dropped back down and dug out a flashbang grenade. “You stay here. I’m going to sweep around to the other side of the village. I’ll incapacitate them with the grenade, and then we both sweep in and cover them while they’re down. I’ll give a signal when I am ready to throw. You need to look away when I do.”
“I’m familiar with how those work.”
“You’re really going to have to tell me how, and why you know how to use that rifle as well as you do.”
“Later.” Ikolo pointed to the right, beyond the massive sjambok trunk and a cluster of butterfruit trees to a bamboo field. “Swing through there. It will be the best way. Stay low and silent.”
Elliot moved out, ducking into the thick brush and weaving carefully, trying not to disturb the foliage. Ikolo made it look easy: moving here, pressing back this branch and that one and carving a path for them both. Elliot ran into strangler fig vines that wouldn’t budge, spiny bromeliads, dream root that blocked his path and an impenetrable thorn bush. Thorns scraped down his side as he tried to push through. He spun away, hissing.
Voices sounded nearby. He dropped and slid behind the thorn bush and stared back at the village. He’d made it halfway down the right side and was facing the backs of the soldiers.
One of the men pulled away from the group and spat, then turned toward the brush. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, and he laughed as he called back to the others, some joke in a dialect Elliot didn’t know. He did recognize the universal sign of a man having to piss: the fighter reached for his fly as he headed straight for Elliot.
He had seconds. Grenade or pistol? He couldn’t give Ikolo a signal from here, but he also couldn’t take on all five fighters at once, not if they stormed him. He breathed slowly, nostrils flaring, his hands wrapping around the grip on his pistol. If he stayed still…
No luck. The rebel’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Elliot through the brambles. He shouted, reached for his rifle—
Elliot dropped him with two to the chest and one to the neck, firing through the thorn bush. Pitching forward, the rebel grabbed his throat, gurgling as he stumbled and dropped, limp and lifeless before his face hit the ground. His blood streamed over the moldering leaves and flowed toward the ash covering the remnants of the village.
He was up and moving, sliding sideways and crashing through the bush as fast as he could. The fighter’s shout had called his friends, catching their attention in time to see his body fall. They bellowed, chasing Elliot’s shadow as he darted into a bamboo thicket.
Bullets whizzed by him, slamming into bamboo trunks and sending missiles of splintered wood at him. They pierced his face, his neck, slices opening up on his skin and weeping drops of blood. He ducked, changed course, and tried to run back to the village.
A shot slammed into a massive iroko tree trunk by his head, another into the dirt at his feet. Elliot threw himself behind the iroko and between the tangled, man-high roots. He readied his grenade.Ikolo, be ready.
Gunshots clapped, echoing in the forest. These weren’t the rubber-band whizzes of bullets screaming by his head. Those were near, but not aimed at him.Ikolo.He heard one of the fighters scream and another let loose a war cry that ended in a strained, wet gurgle after two quick bursts of three shots from Ikolo’s rifle.
Trigger discipline. Ikolo knew how to control his shots.
