Page 64

CHAPTER 63

“WE HERE, BOSS! We here!”

The pilot was shaking me by the shoulders to wake me up. His breath alone would have done the job. I was curled up in the hold of a twin-prop cargo plane with a loaded AR-15 by my side and an extra clip in my pocket. Apparently, I’d slept right through the landing.

The cargo! I sat straight up to make sure it hadn’t escaped. Strapped against the wall were six huge wooden crates of live, bootlegged boa constrictors. From what I could see through the slats, they had all survived the trip, too. I checked my bag for my cutlass. Still there. So was my money. Just less of it.

For five grand, the captain and his party boat got me from Dubai to the southern border of Oman. From there, I hitched a ride on the cargo flight across the Gulf of Aden and over the Horn of Africa. The pilot was from Kenya. He looked about fifteen. But the trip was free, on the condition that I provide security when we landed. Gun and ammo provided.

The flight was supposed to take seven hours, including two refueling stops. I was asleep the whole time.

As I stood up and checked my rifle, the pilot shoved the cargo hatch open and dropped the ramp. It was hot inside the plane, and even hotter outside. The sun was blazingly bright.

We had landed at Nyanza-Lac Airport on the western edge of Burundi. The airport had been closed for years, but that didn’t seem to matter to the pilot—or to the four men sitting in a jeep on the tarmac.

“Who are they?” I asked the pilot.

“They waiting for us” was his answer.

Our greeters were a careless bunch, smoking cigarettes within ten feet of our fuel tank. Their boots were propped against the open sides of the vehicle, and they were loaded with weapons. A gun rack across the back of the jeep held two double-barreled shotguns. Each man had a holstered .45 on his hip and an MP5 submachine gun in his lap.

Apparently, snake trafficking was a dangerous business.

As the pilot started to unfasten the cargo restraints in the hold, I stepped onto the top of the ramp with my rifle cradled in my arms. I threw my shoulders back to look as imposing as possible, but I gave the guys a little nod to indicate I didn’t want any trouble. They grinned back.

Good sign. Let’s get this over with.

From the doorway of the hold, I could see the eastern shore of the lake about three hundred yards away.

Lake Tanganyika.

One step closer to the Congo, and one step closer to finding Kira—the vengeful Shaba.

If it’s really her.

Please, God—let it be her.