Coming 2018
To
Conspire
Again
Excerpt of Book 3
One
North Kivu Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
His nostrils burned with the stench of death. Acrid scents of evil. He sat against a tree trunk hidden in shrub, his heart slamming against his chest. Loud. Too loud. They might hear.
He’d seen the amulets hanging from their necks. He’d laughed at the tales. The foolishness suggesting their magical powers came from water. Except he’d seen them appear from nothing. Kill by turning their water into slow-burning fire.
With shaking hands, he tossed the remaining water from his flask onto his face and smeared it over his brow and down to his chest. “Protect me from the mai-mai.”
Was he foolish to believe could stop wicked spirits? This evil had drawn his soldiers into its mystic land. Once in the Congo, the spirit killers appeared from air. From nothing.
He prayed a swift bullet would be his gift if they discovered him. He pinched his eyes shut, trying to purge the horror playing in his head. A hundred times he had fired into the men occupied by water spirits. The hail of bullets cut down one of his soldiers but left the spirits unscathed. One had faced him, screeching with laughter, before grabbing another soldier. Its triumphant glee turned to ecstasy, ripping the human soul from its victim in a firestorm of light.
Shudders racked him. His head relived the moments when his close comrade, impaled to a tree, was rendered a charred corpse.
Tears rose. He’d done nothing to help. He’d run and hid. For salvation. To save his soul.
His chest heaved. The rustle of a mere lizard roared in his ears. The flap of vulture wings near a gurgling stream set his thoughts spinning. Run or stay hidden? Darkness lay an hour away. Evil thrived in darkness. The silty stream a short dash away would cover his footprints.
All had gone quiet. Had the spirit soldiers taken their need? Did they sleep, drunk in their fortune? Had they moved on?
Ants crawled on his arms, stinging. Insignificant. He slunk low. One hand, one foot forward, then another. Closer to the stream and the edge of the leafy cover he moved. He called on the stealth of a leopard. The clay beneath his feet cleared of leaf clutter. No sound arose. In a low crouch, he waded into the stream.
Cool water filled his boots. He checked up and downstream, choosing the direction with most cover.
A distant monkey screamed. His head jerked in the direction, back toward where his men had died. His steps quickened.
A bird swept past.
Light before him rippled.
A spirit in jungle fatigues materialized, blocking his way.
His body froze, disobeying commands to flee.
A rope flew toward him and wrapped about his neck. The mocking laughter started again. A sharp tug sent him stumbling forward. The inevitable stole any fight from his body.
The spirit sliced his uniform and T-shirt. Blood arose beneath the cut. A cold hand slammed against his chest, then turned to fire.
A scream tore from his lips.
