The port-wine birthmark had once taken up half the man’s left cheek, but a bullet scar puckered and contorted the blemish and twisted his mouth so that the lower lip hung slack. That deformity forced the man to slurp back saliva that tried to dribble through his seemingly lifeless mouth.
Mercer knew he’d gone pale, and the man’s eyes narrowed. The killer must have assumed it was revulsion at his hideous disfigurement; he was probably accustomed to seeing that reaction.
The mercenary raised an American-made M-4 assault rifle to his shoulder and snapped angrily, “Lose the Glock or you die now.”
In his shock Mercer had forgotten the earlier order. He dropped the pistol to the ground. It was useless now anyway. He had one advantage, and he had to use it now before the merc’s backup got into position.
“Who was the other white man with you?” Mercer asked.
“What? What other white man? All the guys with me are white.”
“Not here. I’m talking twenty years ago — when we were in Cameroon, and you and a small force attacked my camp. It was the day I used your birthmark for target practice.”
Niklaas Coetzer’s face went through a gamut of expressions — confusion, shock, anger, regret, hatred, pain, loneliness. It was the playback of a lifetime of woe brought about by the one defining moment in his past. The disfigurement and poor medical care had changed the trajectory of his life. Prior to that fateful shot he had fought on the side of the righteous, working for clients he could believe in. After that there was little meaning in his life. Children ran in horror from his gaze, and Coetzer only knew love when he paid for it in cash. He was cast adrift by his ruined face and soon found himself uncaringly working for some of the worst monsters in the world.
That shot had wrecked his life. Rarely had a day passed that he hadn’t wished the round had killed him, or that he’d get a chance to kill the man who’d cursed him.
Coetzer’s brain returned from that fate-filled moment in the African jungle, only to realize that his quarry was in motion, backpedaling quickly for the ravine behind him. His men had express orders not to fire until Coetzer gave the command, so none of the men around him were reacting to Mercer’s escape. It took Coetzer another second to process this fact, too.
Mercer spun and launched himself off the ravine’s edge. The slope was gentle, but the ground was rocky and he hit hard, rolling over his right shoulder, trying and failing to gain his feet as he continued to tumble out of control.
“Fire!”
He heard the shout behind him, but he was already out of the mercenaries’ sight, at least for a few seconds. And that’s all he’d really bought himself, seconds, because nothing was going to stop the South African from wanting to kill him now.
The shots came from across the ravine, a hundred yards away, and were fired with pinpoint accuracy. Two of the mercenary’s hired goons went down before the sound of the report reached them, and before the others realized that they were under attack. The leader recognized the danger and threw himself flat with his two remaining hired guns.
This was all happening behind and above Mercer, but he could see ahead where the sniper was holed up in the crook of a tree, the boxy Kriss submachine gun tucked hard against his meaty shoulder. He reached the bottom of the ravine and staggered to his feet. Meanwhile, on the opposite rim, Booker Sykes watched the area where the confrontation had taken place through a five-power scope.
The mercenaries stayed well hidden but quickly managed to get off volleys of return fire. Three guns on full auto forced Book to relinquish his post. He jumped down off the tree and retreated back into the jungle. Mercer ran as hard as he could, his body aching from so much abuse. Behind him, the remaining shooters maintained their positions; they had gone from offense to defense in the blink of an eye and now had to protect the bag of crystals since it, and not the men who’d found it, was their ultimate goal.
Book slowed his retreat enough for Mercer to catch up. As soon as they were side by side, Booker picked up the pace again.
“ ’Bout damned time,” Mercer wheezed.
“That’s the thanks I get?”
“I circled back half a dozen times to the volcanic vent you told me about from your night of recon, waiting for you to get into position.”
“Don’t know if you noticed, but they blew up the damned boat about three miles off the coast.”
“There was that,” Mercer conceded. “You two okay?”
“Reyes is seriously pissed but unhurt. In the time between the grenade going off and the diesel exploding, I gathered my gear and a spare scuba rig and got us over the side. It took us this long to swim in without being detected, and to get to a place where I could surveil the vent.”
“Did you place the electronic tracker?”
“Planted that first thing when we reached shore. I stuck it under the old Catalina’s outer pontoon. Pilots were asleep, while the armed rabble were watching something on an electronic display on the beach.”
“Yes…they were tracking me the whole time,” Mercer said angrily.
Mercer was actually thankful. Their Plan B had been a hairy idea…but necessary. He knew there was a distinct chance his enemies would recognize the flaw in Jason Rutland’s deception. They had good scientists backing their efforts, and he and Booker had to prepare for the possibility they would recalculate Fred Noonan’s navigation error and arrive at the crash site very quickly.
Thirty minutes later, Mercer and Sykes were approaching the north coast of Alofi, almost directly opposite of where Mercer had first landed. Without warning, a thundering sound filled the jungle, and they ducked their heads as the silver PBY rumbled over the island, low enough to whip the topmost branches but gaining altitude as it flew away.
“Wasn’t sure if they were going to leave,” Mercer said.
“Why wouldn’t they? They got what they came for.”
“They did…but they didn’t get me.”
Book looked at Mercer quizzically.
“I didn’t tell you this,” Mercer said, “but the team leader is a South African mercenary.”
“Yeah, so. You know him?”
“Not his name,” Mercer admitted. “But I shot him in the face while I was in college, and I really, really think he wants me dead.”
Booker whistled. “For a rock jock, man, you sure get around. Talk to me.”
“First tell me that you managed to save your sat phone so we can get off this godforsaken rock.”
“I left it with Rory. We’ll have a charter plane here from Fiji by the time we find our way over to the airstrip on Futuna. And don’t worry, no swimming. We found a boat we can borrow. Now…tell me how a college puke ends up shooting some badass South African operator?”
Mercer nodded. “First let me tell you about the teacher who invited me on an expedition…”
27
The chartered Gulfstream III had taken off from Futuna Island, destined for Nadi International. Philip Mercer and Booker Sykes sat alertly in the plush leather seats. Rory Reyes slept, no doubt dreaming of a replacement for the Suva Surprise. Once they were airborne, Book had listened to the voice message left by Jason Rutland, immediately handing over the phone so Mercer could call him back.
Rutland was actually on a discussion panel when Mercer’s call came through, and he left it without a word.
“We have a big problem,” Rutland had said straightaway, laying out his case before Mercer could even say hello. Rutland talked for ten minutes. Mercer interrupted only to tell him what the South African mercenary had said about the stones being used to beam energy into the sky, which meshed with Rutland’s frightening theories. Two minutes later, they signed off.