Lost Empire (Fargo Adventures 2)

“I know you will, but that’s not my worry. I probably won’t get there until just after sunrise. Can you hang on?”

“We’ll have to,” Sam said.

“Are folks going to be shooting at me when I get there?”

“No guarantees.”

There was ten seconds of silence, then Mitchell chuckled. “Ah, what the hell. Life’s a daring adventure or nothing at all.”

Sam laughed at this. “It is indeed.”

“Okay, keep your heads down. I’ll be there at first light. Just in case I’ve got some competition at the LZ, I’ll drop blue smoke so you don’t shoot at me.”

Sam disconnected. Beside him, Remi said, “Here, drink.”

Sam turned, took a deep gulp from the canteen, then accepted a piece of beef jerky. He recounted his conversation with Mitchell. Remi said, “That man’s on our permanent Christmas list. So he’ll be here in another four or five hours.”

“With luck.”

They sat in silence, chewing for several minutes. Sam checked his watch. “It’s been forty minutes since we left the island.”

“You don’t think they—”

Sam held up his hand. Remi went quiet. After a few moments, she said, “I hear them. Two of them, somewhere offshore.”

Sam nodded. “Hard to tell, but it sounds like the Rinkers. We’d better assume so.”

“How far inland are we?”

“A quarter mile, maybe a little more.”

They listened for a few more minutes. The sound of the engines rose in volume, then suddenly went silent. “They’re ashore,” Sam said.

They checked their weapons: two AK-74s, one with a full magazine, the other missing the dozen or so rounds Remi had fired at the Cushman; the .357 Magnum; and the H&K P30. Whether these would be enough should a firefight erupt was an unknown. They’d been lucky so far with Rivera and his men, but neither Sam nor Remi were under any illusion: In a head-to-head contest, they had little chance of besting Special Forces soldiers.

“Let’s get comfortable,” Sam said.

“And invisible,” Remi added.

After shoving their packs under a rotting log and covering them with loam, they did the same for themselves, lying lengthwise, head-to-head, so that each of them could see the approaches from the beach. Sam handed Remi a handful of mud to cover her face, then smeared some on his own.

“Promise me something, Sam,” Remi said, slathering herself.

“A suite at the Moevenpick?” he guessed.

“I was going to say a hot shower and a big breakfast, but since you offered I’ve been composing a list . . .”

PEERING THROUGH A GAP between the logs, Remi spotted a speck of light a few hundred yards to the east. She tapped Sam on the shoulder, mouthed, Flashlight, and pointed. The flashlight beam seemed to float through midair, disappearing and reappearing through the trees as the owner picked his way inland.

“I’ll say this much for Rivera,” Sam whispered, “he’s like a dog with a bone.”

“He’s probably said the same thing about us but in less congenial language. Are we waiting until we see the whites of their eyes?”

“No, we’re crossing fingers they don’t even wander this way.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“In Africa, darkness and forest equals predators.”