Democratic Republic Of The Congo
(Formally Zaire)
2001.
I tell you what, if this damn car doesnt get us back to the camp this time, Im dropping a damn grenade in the engine bay!
Si détendre, mon frère. I fixed it myself this time.
Im surprised the piece of ***** even started up, never mind even got us this far.
Well our Parisian compatriot has never achieved anything less than stellar results. Im quite certain this time will be no exception.
The old Jeep trundled down the dirt road, ancient suspension squeaking in protest at every bump and pothole. High above the quartet of mercenaries the hot African sun beat down on them relentlessly. Of the four, the driver, Marc Spector, head covered in a vintage American baseball cap and stripped down to khaki military vest and cargo trousers was the only one not clutching protectively at a weapon.
Next to him, with an M4 carbine resting across his lap, the heavily muscled and rough Raoul Bushman scanned the bush on either side of the road for signs of activity.
Its been too quiet for too long. I dont like it he growled from under a deep scowl.
Spector muttered a vocalised reply. Though he didnt show it, he too was suspicious. They had been drafted in by the local rebels to aid in the protection of the mostly Tutsi population in the region from the more heavily equipped and better trained government forces. There had been a few skirmishes over the two weeks they had been in the country but nothing that the four mercenaries couldnt handle.
Perhaps they are fearful of us? said the man sat behind Spector. Tall and slender, with flowing white hair and a thin rolled cigarette hanging from his lips, the Englishman, Bertrand Crawley was running his hand up and down the side of his M21 sniper rifle.
Nón replied Jean-Paul DuChamp.
Have you looked into the eyes of those men? There lies le diable. They fear nothing. The beret on his head sat almost as stereotypically as the pencil moustache he had growing upon his top lip.
The jeep rolled over the crest of a short hill and down a path that wound right from the relative good sight of the plains into a dense pack of trees.
Eyes open boys Bushman rumbled, picking the M4 up.
Ahead of them through the thicket the road narrowed slightly, before opening back up into a small clearing. Other than the sound of the rickety engine, the only other noise was the rustle and call of unseen birds. Crawley opened a small map and glanced at his GPS locator.
We should be back in rebel territory within the hour according to this.
I swear, if those children have stolen my cognac again Ill string them up by thei-
KABOOM!
In front of the jeep, the road exploded in a cloud of dirt, fire and deafening noise. Spector pulled hard on the wheel but the Jeep lost traction in the dirt and shale and skittered off of the road, colliding with a nearby tree. Crawley, DuChamp and Bushman were thrown from the vehicle whilst Spector collided head first with the wheel.
DOWN! DOWN! commanded Bushman, even though the others didnt need telling. Years of military experience between the four had taught them to a level where natural instinct took over. Spector rolled from the vehicle and joined the other three as they dived into the treeline opposite.
F***ING AMBUSH! WHERE THE HELL DID THEY GET RPGs FROM?! Spector roared, sinking back against a tree, M16 held up with the safety off.
A few feet away, Crawley had rolled into the bush prone and was checking the scope of the M21.
You have a bead? Frenchie asked.
Eight fellows, all coming down the embankment on the opposite side of the road. All armed. He breathed and moved the scope a little to the left.
Dear lord
. INCOM ING! GET DOWN!
On the road ahead the crashed Jeep exploded in fire in response to the familiar whistle of an RPG round flying through the air. A huge black smoking fireball erupted, signalling the rough foreign cries of the force coming down the hill towards them. Crawley rolled back out of cover and snapped his rifle up, checking the scope and popping off a round within seconds.
Rocketman is down he stated calmly.
Spector ran the back of his hand over his eyes and spun his cap so the brim sat on the nape of his neck.
Okay. So we have eight?
Affirmative.
Raoul, take the right. Frenchie, left. Ill advance and we hit them from three sides, then advance up the hill. Crawley cover us all.
Of course
Oui
On it.
Bushman and Frenchie disappeared and Spector heard the familiar rattle of Bushmans M4 and Frenchies dual pair of Uzis. Breaking from his own cover behind the tree, Spector ranp, crouched low towards the searing heat of the Jeep and fell prone. The dee thud of Crawleys M21 led to a scream up ahead. Spector shouldered his own as two men came towards him, rifles raised and firing. In his mouth his tongue felt thick and he had to swallow the cold adrenaline that was coursing through him. With accuracy a short burst dropped one man and threw the second off of his feet.
Three down he counted.
Raising himself up, he advanced across the road. The military forces had split and were exchanging fire with both Frenchie and Bushman. Spector checked the ACOG sight and unloaded another burst and finished off the second soldier he had felled. Screams and gunfire continued to light up the jungle for a few more moments before finally falling silent. As agreed, the four men made their way up the hill. Spector came to the body of the RPG carrier. Slender and with a shaven head the boy couldnt have been more than seventeen years old. The gaping claret hole in his chest was already attracting flies. Crawley appeared at his shoulder.
I dont think Ill ever get used to it you know. Theyre hardly past being boys.
He wouldnt have hesitated Bushman came in from the right, M4 held ready.
Spector dragged his gaze from the soldier and stepped away. Below them on the other side of the crest was a small group of shacks and a military truck, emblazoned with the insignia of government forces. Resting against the truck was a single guard, his weapon raised and a cigar hanging from cracked lips. Dark sunglasses his eyes but Spector was certain he hadnt seen them. Crawley dropped him with a single shot.
Spector put his fingers to his lips and crouched low before waving two fingers at bushman and Frenchie and motioning down to the shack. Crawley received a clenched fist, the sign to hold position. All of the mercenaries nodded their understanding, Frenchie pulling a Baretta out of a waist holster rather than using the small automatic weapons.
Both Bushman and Frenchie made their way down the hill and Spector circled, staying low in the scrub of the trees. There was no movement outside, but a shadow passed through one of the houses windows. It was the first shack Bushman had got to. Frenchie had taken one off to the left. As he reached it, the door flung open and hit Bushman flush, knocking him back. A dark blur screamed and leapt from the doorway, Bushman recovered and swung his rifle cracking the butt of it against his attacker.
Spector saw it all and was already running as he saw what was about to happen.
NO! he roared.
STOP!
Outside of the shack, Bushman trained his rifle on his attacker, finger resting on the trigger and his eyes blazing. In the dirt lie a boy, shirtless and stick-thin, a small rusted knife in the dirt next to him. Frenchie had ran over and trained his weapon on the open door, slowly making his way inside.
Little bastard tried to stick me! Bushman snarled shuffling his rifle.
Leave it! Spector cried reaching the dirt and moving to Bushman. He could see the rage in the gruff mercenaries eyes.
He tried to ****ing stick me. I should put a bullet in him. Stop him running and getting more of those ****s He gestured with a flick of the head to the hillside of dead soldiers.
Frenchie emerged from the shack with his weapon lowered and his face white.
Raoul, lasses-le aller. You need to see this.
Reluctantly Bushman lowered his weapon from the cowering boy as Crawley knelt to him and offered his hand
Its okay young lad he said as warmly as a soldier could.
Well not harm you.
The boy pushed him away though, crying out as Spector and Bushman entered the shack. Spector almost gagged. Inside, the tin walls were slapped with bright red blood. Three girls and a young man all lie dead in a pile, their bodies covered in cuts and bruises.
Bastards didnt even use a bullet. They were beaten to death, died slow and painful.
One of the bodies whimpered and cried. Spector went to raise his weapon but the boy pushed his way past to the woman. She was bloody and beaten, her face swollen and heavily bruised. Her ragged clothes torn and hanging from her thin limbs. Her legs were covered in blood. It didnt take an investigation to understand what had happened to her. Spector swallowed hard and found no words.
Frenchie had left the shack with Bushman, and Crawley stepped in, moving past him.
This is what they do. How they work. Evil in its purest form. To cow them and fill them with fear.
Why did they leave him? Why did he have to see this? Spector said, though he already knew the answer.
He would be the next generation to wage their war. Theyd have taken him to one of their slave camps. Drugged and trained him. Indoctrinated him. Leave us Marc, I will tend to them.
Spector turned and left the shack, his gut heavy and nausea threatening to unman him. Walking up to the body on the ground he removed his Colt from its holster on his leg and emptied the clip into the soldiers corpse.
No one else said a word as the deafening wails of the girl cried loudly into the air.
