Africa

Late March

Wearing dirty camouflage gear, boots, and insect repellent, Rand McCree crouched behind the tattered grass blind. His camera’s extreme-long-distance lens filled the hole cut in the loosely woven grass. Even though the sun was barely above the eastern horizon, Rand was sweating. He didn’t notice it. In the Democratic Republic of Camgeria, whether it was tropical coastland or scrubby interior, men sweated. It was how they knew they were alive.

Through the camera lens Rand watched the rebels-or freedom fighters, depending on your politics-wait next to heavy trucks parked just off the south end of the miserable, barely scraped dirt strip that passed for a runway in this part of Africa.

Next to him, his twin jerked, kicking the AK-47 lying between the two men.

“Settle down,” Rand said softly. “The plane will be along eventually.”

“Something bit me,” Reed muttered.

“Are your shots current?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what are you bitching about?”

“I feel like a bush blood bank.”

Rand smiled. “You are.”

“How did I let you talk me into this?”

“Me? You were the one going on about a lifetime opportunity to get a picture of the most dangerous, mysterious arms trader since-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Reed interrupted. “Don’t remind me.”

“Not more than twice a day.”

“More than that. At least twice since-”

“Quiet.”

Reed shut up and heard the whining growl of turboprops. He raised his powerful binoculars and began searching the dusty sky in the direction of the sound.

“Got him,” he said to his twin. “Coming in at three o’clock, flying low. And I mean low.” He whistled softly through his teeth. “That’s a ballsy pilot. Or a drunk. His gear is raking leaves.”