Bullets for Breakfast Page 2

pleasure of killing me himself.

  Or herself.

  Sadly, there were plenty of people in the world who had reason to want me dead, some of them quite powerful. That I had accumulated so many ill-wishers in my short twenty-four years-almost twenty-five now-was part of the reason I was trekking through the wilds of Borunda in the first place. Not that I was in hiding or anything like that. I had simply taken a year to travel around the world and figure out what to do with my life. Kind of a spiritual journey. Typical twentysomething angst, even if the scale and context of my choices were unusual.

  I spent time with the Inca in Peru, sailed the South Pacific, lived with a Stone Age tribe in New Guinea, traversed the winding rivers of Vietnam, went on walkabout in Australia, rode across the steppe with Mongol horsemen. I worked a clinic for lepers in India, meditated with Buddhist monks in Nepal, wandered the Arabian desert with the Bedouin. Finally I trekked across the heart of Africa, from Kenya through the Congo basin, and now to Borunda. I didn't have all the answers yet, but I was making progress. The last thing I needed was some gun for hire splattering my newly enlightened brain all over the jungle. Talk about going back to square one.

  The snipers had no shot so long as I stayed put. I didn't think they'd come bounding down the cliff the way I had, which meant they'd take the trail. Or rather, one of them would, while the other maintained the high ground to keep me pinned. So long as one of them was up there, I couldn't run. I ticked off my other options. Wait and try to overpower the guy who came down for me. Risky. Climb up and take the fight to them. Unlikely. Swim out of here. That sounded good, but the stream emptying from the pool wasn't deep enough for an underwater egress. I would be exposed for a critical few seconds if I tried to go that way. That would be fatal.

  Which brought me back to the first option. Wait. It might take the guy ten minutes or more to pick his way down the winding highland trail. That ten minutes could well be my remaining life expectancy. Just great. I finally get some direction in my life and God calls time.

  I waited. I listened. The sniper was moving quietly. Snipers are good that way. But I could tell he was coming. I could sense his approach with the hyperawareness of a hunted animal. Even the forest seemed to be waiting, listening, frogs and birds and monkeys holding their breath to see what would happen. Closer. Closer. Closer he came.

  I figured I'd slip under the water when he got to the bottom and swim over to the edge of the pool. If he came close enough before my breath gave out, I might take him by surprise, pull him in, get the gun away from him. It would never work, but it was the best plan I could devise on short notice.

  Before I could execute my desperation play a new factor entered the equation. A helicopter skimmed in across the tree tops to hover over the clearing. Not moving from my place of concealment I watched it with a mixture of hope and dread. I was either about to be saved or about to be really, really dead.

  A commanding voice from the chopper's PA system sounded over the rotor noise. "This is the Borunda National Police! You on the cliffs-put down your weapons and surrender immediately!"

  The helo turned to line up its 7.62mm gun pod. I saw the BNP markings on its tail. Thank God.

  Topside, the snipers did the math and threw down their guns.

  The chopper, a Eurocopter AS 532 Cougar, touched down in the clearing as I swam back across the pool to meet it. A squad of black riflemen in crisp khakis sprang from the cabin and spread out to secure the scene. Their officer emerged last. Demonstrating absolute confidence that his men had the situation in hand, he kept his sidearm holstered as he strode to the water's edge. He evidently applied extra starch to his uniform because, despite the heat, he had not the slightest wrinkle. His trousers sported a knife-edge crease.

  "I am Captain Henri Doussard of the Borunda National Police," he said. "Please identify yourself."

  I took a deep breath. I loved moments like this.

  "Scarlet. Jack Scarlet."

  Captain Doussard saluted me. "My orders, Dr. Scarlet, are to take you at once to the capital. President Ogambo insists that you accept his hospitality while you are in Borunda."

  "I understand," I said. That was the reason I had entered Borunda on foot at a quiet checkpoint along the Congo border, rather than flying into the airport. President Ogambo was a good friend of my father. I knew he would press me to stay at the presidential palace and subject me to banquets, parties, armed escorts, and the like. I just wanted to go hiking. But I had used my regular passport, so I knew it was only a matter of time before my name was flagged and the president sent out a search party to bring me in. Normally I would be annoyed that they had found me so soon. Given the circumstances, I had no complaints. I looked forward to telling Ogambo the whole story. "I'm actually quite glad to see you, captain."

  Doussard's eyes slid past me and took in the dead mercenaries scattered around the clearing. He could not restrain his policeman's curiosity.

  "What happened here?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "Hunting accident."

  Doussard shook his head. "Most unfortunate," he said. "Most unfortunate."