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CHAPTER 49

Democratic Republic of the Congo, 11 p.m.

FOR TONIGHT’S MISSION, Kira had picked a hiding spot closer to the compound, across from a specific tent—the one occupied by Hemple.

Kira had been trained to be dispassionate, but she’d developed a special contempt for this particular mercenary. Hatred, even. Through her scope, she’d observed his daily cruelty to the mine workers, pushing them, shouting at them, shooting at them. For the pure pleasure of it.

Kira had known more than a few sadists in her life. Some of them had been her teachers. They had always aroused a deep fury in her. That’s what she was feeling right now.

From her position in a thicket of raffia palms, Kira could see Hemple’s burly silhouette inside the tent, backlit by a lamp. She pulled a small straight plastic tube from her pocket and placed a smooth pebble in her mouth. She took aim with the tiny blowgun and shot at a metal pail outside the tent.

The pebble struck with a loud ping .

No reaction.

Kira wet another pebble with her tongue. Another shot. Another direct hit. This time, she saw Hemple grab his rifle and head for the tent opening. He whipped the flap open, then recoiled as if hit by an invisible punch. He staggered backward.

Through her scope, Kira saw two red dots appear on Hemple’s forehead. A long green snake, tied by its tail to the top of the tent post, was now squirming and twitching, its venom spent. The boomslang.

Kira watched Hemple drop to the ground, feet thrashing, hands clawed. She put away her scope and slipped back into the jungle. Based on her estimate of his weight and the potency of the neurotoxin, Kira figured Hemple had about three agonizing hours to live.

She smiled with bitter satisfaction.

Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.