Raven Strike

One of Gerard’s bodyguards continued to shoot. The man’s gun clicked empty; he dropped the magazine and reached for another, firing through that. He didn’t stop until he had no more magazines.

A half-dozen people lay on the ground. Two or three moaned; the others were already dead. Blood and splinters were everywhere. One of the picnic tables had been shot in half, its two ends reaching up like a pair of hands praying to the heavens.

Gerard sputtered in rapid French.

“Stay down,” Da

“They were with Gerard.”

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s asking who did this,” said Nuri, who’d drawn his pistol. “Dumb question. Has to be Sudan First.”

Nuri got to his knees, listening as Gerard continued to yell.

“He says it was Girma’s truck. That’s Sudan First.”

“Time for us to get out of here,” said Da

“We’re going to have to help clean this up,” said Nuri.

“What?”

“We have a car. We have to take the victims to the clinic.”

This wasn’t a particularly good time to be playing good Samaritan, thought Da

“Go get the car,” Nuri told Da

By the time Da

“I’ll stay,” said Nuri, ru

“Be careful,” said Da

“I’ve been in much worse situations. Speak as little as possible,” added Nuri. “Very little. They’re going to be suspicious. The cover will be that you’re a mercenary from Australia, probably a wanted criminal. They might accept that.”

“I don’t sound Australian.”

“They won’t know.”

The two bodyguards climbed on the trunk; Da

Marie Bloom was not the naive do-gooder that Melissa had taken her for at first. On the contrary, Bloom was a steely and wily woman who started questioning her as soon as Nuri and Da

“What spy agency do you work for?” she asked, getting straight to the point.

“I’m not a spy,” Melissa told her.

“Lupo didn’t just find you on the street,” she said. “You’re an American. You’re with the CIA.”

“I am an American,” Melissa said. She fidgeted in the office chair. It was a small room; if she held out her arms, she could almost touch both walls. “I was in Kruk last week. There were problems in one of the camps. I had . . . trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” asked Bloom. Her voice was borderline derisive. She leaned against the bare table she used as a desk; it doubled as an examining table for infants.

“There were problems with one of the supervisors,” said Melissa. “He tried . . . let’s say he pushed me around.”

“And then what happened?”

“I took care of it.”

Bloom frowned, and reached for Melissa’s shoulder. She jerked back instinctively.

“I know it’s hurt. Let me see it,” said Bloom.

Melissa leaned forward reluctantly.

“Take off your shirt,” directed Bloom.

Wincing, Melissa unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it back on her shoulders, exposing the massive bruise.

“You dislocated it,” said Bloom, probing gently at the edges.

“I put it back in place.”

“Yourself?”

“I had help.”

“He pulled it from the socket?”

Melissa didn’t answer.

“I would bet there’s tearing,” said Bloom. “The rotator cuff—”

“I’ll be fine,” said Melissa. “Someone is going to meet me. We’ll go to the capital and I’ll go home.”

She pulled her shirt back into place. She didn’t think Bloom fully believed her story, but the injury was certainly authentic, and it made everything else at least somewhat plausible. In general, that was all people needed—an excuse to find something believable.

“What are you taking for it?” asked Bloom.

“Aspirin.” She shook her head. “I’m OK.”

“We have hydrocodone.”

“No. You’ll need them for real patients.”

“As if you’re not hurt? You think you’re more stoic than the next person?”

“I saw a hell of a lot worse at Kruk.”

Bloom gathered a stethoscope, a thermometer, and gloves from a basket at the left side of the desk. “How do you know Gerard?”

“I have no idea who he is.”

“Lupo?”

Melissa shook her head. “He was a convenient ride. I needed to go. It sounded like a good solution.”

“You travel with people you don’t know?” said Bloom, her voice once more harsh. “That’s very dangerous.”

“One of my supervisors said he could be trusted. He’s a criminal, I know,” added Melissa. “But he didn’t try to hurt me.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“When my friend comes, I’ll give him a hundred dollars.”

“You have it?”

“My friend will have it. I don’t.”

“I hope your friend has a gun,” said Bloom. “Several.”

Melissa rose and started to follow Bloom out of the office. As she opened the door, they heard gunfire in the distance. Bloom tensed.

“What’s going on?” asked Melissa.

“I don’t know.” She turned around and went to the cabinet behind Melissa. Reaching inside, she took out a pistol—an older Walther automatic. She put it in her belt under her lab coat. “Get ready for anything.”

Da

Except for the soft purr of the engine, it was eerily silent. Da

That was more than he could say for the man they’d lain across the backseat. Da

They carried him in anyway.

The last person in the car was a young boy, unconscious but with a good pulse and steady breathing. Six or seven large splinters of wood were stuck in his face; small trickles of blood ran down across his chin and neck to his clothes. There was a stain on his pants where he’d wet himself, and another—this one caked blood, near his knee.

Da

One of the men he’d come with tapped his shoulder, indicating that they should go back. Da

“The Chinese man put him up to this,” Nuri told Gerard as they surveyed the ruined pavilion. “Where is he?”

“I’ll kill him,” said Gerard. His glassy stare had been replaced by one even more frightening; his eyes were almost literally bulging from his sockets. Two veins pulsed in his neck.