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All it took was a log, a rope, or a long enough piece of chain and anyone could establish a “tollbooth” in this part of the country. They were normally staffed by rebel forces, crooked police, or legit military looking to augment their meager incomes. Some of the impromptu tollbooths were said to pull in $700,000 or more a year. It was a racket, to be sure, and the men who ran them ruled the roads with an iron fist.

In order to make sure that no one assaulted these setups, or tried to blow through without paying, they hid ambush teams farther up the road. Depending on the terrain, sometimes the team was one hundred meters ahead; sometimes it was a couple of miles. It was the perfect insurance policy. You might make it past the tollbooth without paying, but you had no idea where the ambush team would be. Not only would the ambush team take your life, they would also use your corpse and that of your fellow passengers as an advertisement to others who might think they could avoid paying their fair share.

Ash had briefed Harvath and Dr. Decker about his position on the tolls as they rolled out of Bunia. While he hated paying off thugs, a hundred dollars for two vehicles was just the cost of doing business in Congo.

Despite the coffee and piss-poor roads, Jessica Decker had spent most of the ride sleeping on her rolled up fleece, pressed against the window. It was a skill likely developed from having experienced multiple war zones and learning to grab sleep whenever you could get it. The key was in knowing when to wake up. As the vehicles came to a stop, she did exactly that.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Toll,” Mick said from the front seat. “Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”

Ash mumbled something under his breath.

“What is it?” Harvath asked.

“Looks like Congolese regulars,” he said. “We’ll drop a few bills into the collection plate and be on our way.”

As the men up front rolled down their windows, Harvath hoped they were right. But there was something about this setup, something he couldn’t put his finger on, that gave him a very bad feeling.

CHAPTER 3

The first soldier who approached their Land Cruiser appeared nervous, distraught. He clutched his AK-47 in both hands. “Médecins?” he asked, gesturing with his weapon. Doctors? French was the official language of the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Oui,” Harvath answered from behind Asher. “Médecins.” His grade school had been run by an order of French nuns. Next to sports, French had been one of the few things he had excelled at.

Allez,” the soldier ordered, grabbing the handle and jerking open Harvath’s door. “Descendez.” Get out.

“Everyone stays in the vehicles,” Asher commanded.

“No,” the soldier said in broken English. “Doctor now.”

Before anyone could react, Jessica Decker had opened her door and was stepping out.

“Stop,” Harvath ordered her, but it was too late.

I’m the doctor,” Decker stated.

The soldier looked back at Harvath. “Vous n’êtes pas le médecin?” You’re not the doctor?

“Moi, je suis—”

Decker interrupted Harvath. “I told you,” she said, as she grabbed a medical kit from her pack, “I’m the doctor.”

The soldier slammed Harvath’s door shut and started walking around to the other side.

“Dr. Decker, I want you back in this vehicle right now,” Ash instructed through Mick’s window.

Ash and Mick were both wearing “bone phones,” earpieces connected to radios hidden under their shirts that transmitted speech through bone conduction technology. Eddie and Simon must have asked for a situation report because Harvath heard Mick say, “Figuring that out now. Stand by.”

“Someone needs a doctor,” Decker stated with an air of haughtiness. “That’s what I do.”

“And what I do is keep people safe,” Ash replied. “Whoever this someone is, they can wait five more minutes while we negotiate this. You’re not going anywhere.”

“These are soldiers from the Congolese army.”

“We don’t know that. Now get back in the vehicle.”

Decker ignored him and walked forward.

He was about to reiterate his order when he heard the door behind him open up and Harvath stepped out.

Immediately, the other soldiers raised their weapons.

The lead soldier spun and angrily pointed his AK at Harvath. “Que faites-vous?” he demanded. What are you doing?

“Everybody relax,” Decker said as she put her hands out, appealing for calm. She glared at Harvath. It was a good question. What the hell was he doing? From inside the Land Cruisers, the Brits were thinking the same thing.

“Je suis l’assistant du médecin,” Harvath stated, donning a headlamp he had retrieved from his bag. I am the doctor’s assistant. He turned the lamp on and swung his head from side to side — blinding several of the soldiers with its intense glare. They threw their arms up to shield their eyes and cursed at him.

“Si nous avons besoin de l’assistant d’un médecin, nous vous appellerons.” If we need a doctor’s assistant, the lead soldier barked, we’ll call you. “Retournez dans votre véhicule.” Get back in your vehicle.

With that, the man grabbed Jessica Decker by the arm and steered her toward the jungle.

Facing a row of angry men with AK-47s, Harvath did the only thing he could do at the moment. Reluctantly, he climbed back into the Land Cruiser.

“She’s insane,” Ash stated.

Harvath had already developed his own opinion about Decker, but now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “Look at their shoes,” he said.

The SAS men did as he suggested.

“None of their boots match. Two of them are wearing tennis shoes.”

Ash cursed under his breath. “The uniforms may be from the Congolese army, but these guys definitely aren’t.”

“So who are they?” Mick wondered.

Harvath nodded at the two rebels closest to them. “Both of them, as well as the guy Dr. Decker just walked off with have the same tattoo. Looks like a cobra.”

“Shit,” Ash replied. “Rebels. FRPI.”

There were so many rebel groups in Congo, it was hard to tell the players without a scorecard. Harvath had uploaded a list of them to his phone before leaving and had tried to study up as much as he could on the flight over.

“Free Republic of—” he attempted before Mick interrupted him.

“Front for Patriotic Resistance of Ituri,” he said, looking at the uniformed men. “Based out of Bunia. I’ve never heard any reports of them being along this road, much less posing as Congolese regulars. They must be desperate for cash.”

They were desperate for something, Harvath thought. “How bad is this group?”

“The FRPI? Pretty bad. Rape, mass murder, drugs. You name it. But the tattoo is the problem. These guys are a unit of shock troops. Kind of like a republican guard. They do everything from protecting high-ranking FRPI leadership, to terrorizing civilians.”

“Which probably explains why they’re out here with an injured patient and not back at the hospital in Bunia. This is not going to end well.”

“We don’t know that,” Mick offered.

“Listen, these rebels just hit the jackpot. They not only now have a doctor, they have a very attractive female doctor. They’re not going to give her back. That goes double if whoever needs the medical care is a high-ranking rebel with a price on his head.”