Chapter Text
23 January 2008 — 40KM outside Harare, Zimbabwe
The orphanage was as good a place to die as any.
It had been years since John Porter had thought "well, I never thought it would end up like this," so facing death in the arse-end of Zimbabwe wasn't the least surprising. He watched as Masuku prepared to take Sister Bernadette and the kids across the river to the rendezvous camp where his mission was supposed to end. Instead it would end here.
He ran down a list of what assets he had to hand and what he might need. He might have an hour before they came for him. An hour to get ready. His side ached where he'd taken a round from one of the same FN FALs he had in his hand, but he could ignore it for a little while longer.
He was about to go back into the main school building when he realised that the group wasn't leaving. Masuku said something to Sister Bernadette he couldn't quite overhear, except for "Look after those kids." His objective was clear when he came limping back towards Porter.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"You know as well as I do their best chance is if we both make a stand."
Porter shook his head with a wry smile. "I really wish I'd shot you."
Masuku shifted his weight off his injured leg. "You believe the British will let me live?"
"I thought I was paranoid."
Masuku turned and looked back at Sister Bernadette. They watched her leave with the kids in silence, until she looked back and waved. Masuku lifted his hand in farewell, then looked at Porter with a resigned sigh. "I'm Ndebele, John. I was born a warrior. My blood belongs here, in this red soil." They exchanged a glance, and Porter had a rare moment of perfect understanding with another human being. "Anyway, we have an advantage," Masuku grinned.
"What's that?"
"Tshuma needs us alive." Colonel Tshuma had been following them across the rocky terrain for over a day since they'd escaped his jail in Harare. Without either of them, the Zimbabwean government would never learn who tried to assassinate their President—which was exactly what the British government wanted.
"Great," said Porter.
The two men walked into the school to take inventory of what weapons and ammunition they had, and to prepare to make their stand.
There was an odd mixture of the practical and the ridiculous in the orphanage. There was no working phone, but running water. They gathered a cache of weapons from the bandits that had been extorting the nuns, but the only vehicle around was a rusted-out Ford in one of the tottering outbuildings; there was plenty of fuel, but no wheels on the car itself.
"Do you think someone stole the wheels?" asked Masuku with a grin.
"Fucked if I know," said Porter. He returned with a grin of his own. "You don't suppose Sister Bernadette had an RPG hidden around here somewhere, do you?"
"I think the Church is making them standard issue now," said Masuku, hoisting one of the large fuel tanks. Porter grabbed the other one and followed him, startled into a laugh.
~~~
"I'm saying, Tshuma needs me more than he needs you. Let me take point. He's less likely to kill me outright," Masuku said. They stood over the wooden kitchen table, pointing at a makeshift diagram of the orphanage.
"They also don't know for sure that you're still here," said Porter. "We station you somewhere you can flank, and we'll catch them off their guard." He had a moment to shake his head at the absurdity of the situation: he was about to face down an elite group of soldiers from the Zimbabwe National Army, side by side with the man the British government had sent him to Zimbabwe to kill in the first place. Just the two of them, both of them wounded. Porter had seen some missions take odd turns before, but so far this one was winning for sheer fucked-up absurdity.
"All right then, what are you thinking?" Masuku folded his arms and leaned a hip against the table. If his leg was hurting him, he wasn't showing it. If he'd shown any sign of weakness at all Porter would have thrown his arse bound and gagged into Sister Bernadette's broom closet and taken on Tshuma's men himself.
"Right here, where we found the Ford. Get the jump on them there, then we'll lead them back into the house. Once they're all inside..." Porter tilted his head toward the pantry.
"You better be right," Masuku said.
"Oh, I'm always right." Except when he wasn't. And then people died.
~~~
The wind rattled hot and dry through the wilting remains of Sister Bernadette's garden. The sound nearly disguised it, but there it was: the low rumble of approaching Land Rovers. Two? Three? Porter couldn't be certain, but it was fewer than he'd been expecting. The last one, though, was pulling a trailer with about two dozen soldiers. That was more like it. Except they looked like they'd already seen some action on the way in. Several of the men were already bleeding, and some uniforms were torn. Maybe they'd already run into his friends the bandits. Fine. A few more dead on both sides there would only be to the good.
He crouched behind the stone pillars of the front porch, cradling the FN FAL and waiting. As soon as the soldiers were spilling away from the vehicles he sent a burst of fire at them.
That bastard Tshuma was crouched beside the vehicle, a megaphone in one hand, Beretta 92FS in the other. Even he was bleeding from a wound on his arm. What the hell had happened to them? "John Dean! If that is your real name."
John Dean had been a diamond smuggler—for a few hours, anyway. Long enough to get Porter into Chikirubi Prison to free Masuku from Colonel Tshuma and his men.
"Why don't you just give me Masuku? Do that, and I will consider letting you live. I saw the grave you dug for him, Dean. Are you really willing to die for him now? Or is that your weakness? You have a conscience?"
Porter rolled his eyes and muttered, "Yeah, I'm all heart," and fired.
The next minutes were a blur of dust and smoke and noise, sharpened into focus one target at a time as Tshuma and his men advanced on the house. Porter heard Masuku take down the flank, then leap onto the porch beside him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Porter saw Masuku nearly stand and break cover. He grabbed his arm and pulled him back down, but Masuku shook him off. "Look!"
"What the fuck?" Porter stared. Tshuma's men were in chaos. It looked as if they were fighting amongst themselves, but hardly anyone was using their weapons. As he watched, one of the men shot another point blank in the chest. His attacker kept coming, but was attacking with his hands, as if he'd forgotten the AK-47 slung over his back.
"Oh, Christ. Porter, look."
The colonel was being attacked by two of this men, who were... biting him. Porter stood, as no one out there had any interest in shooting at either him or Masuku anymore.
The fight was bloody and brutal. The man he'd seen shoot one of his fellow soldiers had forsaken his gun and was gnawing on the neck of a third soldier. For all the blood, there were almost no corpses lying on the ground. Even from here, he could see wounds that should have been fatal, but still the men fought on. As he watched, one of the last men still using a weapon fell to the ground and was overpowered. He was bleeding out one minute, and the next he was sitting up and joining the others.
Porter couldn't feel his fingers on the rifle as he stared out into the garden, trying to make some sort of sense of what he was seeing.
"John, what in God's name is happening?" asked Masuku.
Porter shook his head. "I don't—" One of the men in the yard looked in their direction and started walking towards the porch with slow, halting steps. Out of instinct, Porter raised the FN FAL and fired a burst into the man's chest, and Masuku followed, aiming at the next rank advancing towards them. Even though Porter saw the wound open up, saw the blood spatter, the man kept coming. Think. He glanced at one of the two corpses lying still on the ground. They had one thing in common: head trauma.
"Aim for the head!" he said, and re-aimed. The first man went down, and more importantly, stayed down. Masuku took down a second. The others never flinched, made no attempt to dive for cover, or do anything other than advance.
"Come on," Porter said, grabbing Masuku by the arm and pulling him back into the building. They positioned themselves to either side of the doorframe and took turns shooting. It was sickeningly like target practice.
"There's too many of them," Masuku said. "They're going to swarm us."
"The kitchen." The original plan was to lure the men into the house after them, where the fuel tanks were rigged to blow. All someone would need to do would be to open the kitchen door...
"Hold them back," Porter said, and jumped up. These men didn't seem likely to open any doors, but they also weren't watching where they put their feet. He rigged a quick and dirty tripwire from the kitchen door across the main entry. God only knew if fire would stop them, but at least it would slow them down.
He grabbed Masuku's forearm. "Come on. We're leaving. Now."
The first group had reached the porch steps and were climbing.
"Now," Porter repeated, and pulled Masuku towards the back door that would take them to the camp. They were maybe thirty metres from the building when they heard a low 'crump' and felt heat and pressure at their backs, knocking them to the ground. Porter rolled as he fell, looking back at the fireball rising into the sky.
"Do you think that did it?" asked Masuku.
"We're not sticking around to find out." They climbed to their feet and started running.
~~~
"Porter!" Layla Thompson jogged up to him as soon as he and Masuku reached the camp. "What took you so long?"
"We had to wait for company," Porter said.
Layla looked them both over, and Porter knew they were a mess, each with their own set of dirty bandages and the usual assortment of cuts and scrapes. "So I see," Layla said.
"Did Sister Bernadette make it?" asked Masuku.
Their answer came in the form of flying braids and bare feet. "The soldiers, the soldiers are back!" The girl Masuku insisted on rescuing from the bandits—Josette—collided with Masuku, throwing her arms around his waist. Masuku winced as his weight shifted to his injured leg, and Porter was just glad she hadn't grabbed him first.
Still, watching Masuku touch the girl's hair and smile at her was enough to make him wonder if Masuku was a father too. Then the girl was grabbing Porter around the waist—careful of his makeshift bandages. "Sister says thank you, Mr. Porter."
Porter detached himself carefully from the girl, a hand on her shoulder. "Go tell her I said 'you're welcome.'" Thankfully, she nodded and took off again, but not before giving Masuku a smile and a wave.
Layla said, "You're Felix Masuku."
"And you're one of the people who wanted me dead," he said.
"Not me," Layla said, extending a hand. "I'm Layla. And someone made the wrong call where you're concerned."
Masuku looked at her hand, then shook it. "Just don't expect me to trust you."
"Can we talk about who wants to kill who later?" asked Porter. "Layla, something's going on. Tshuma's men. They weren't... dying."
"We saw it too." Layla was pale beneath her tan. Porter couldn't remember ever seeing her so obviously rattled before. Rattled, but in control.
Porter and Masuku exchanged a glance. "What did you see?" Porter asked.
"Follow me," Layla said.
Inside one of the tents there was a man tied to a chair, one of the bandits, to judge by his clothes, a mishmash of cheap American sportswear and cast-off military gear. He lifted his head when they entered, and sniffed the air with a snarl, and the hair on the back of Porter's neck stood up. Porter saw at least three gunshot wounds to his chest and abdomen, still sluggishly bleeding.
"He just walked into the camp," Layla said, "and started attacking anybody who got near him." The man in the chair rolled his head from side to side, trying to reach for the soldier guarding him.
"Guns didn't work," Masuku said. "That's what we saw."
"Layla." Porter turned away from the dead man to look at her. "Did he bite anyone?"
"He tried," she started.
Porter took her by the shoulders. "But did he break skin? Listen to me. If he did, you better make another place right here next to this one."
"Bloody hell," said Layla. "I don't think so. No."
"You need to put him down, or he'll try and infect all of us."
"And how do you expect me to do that," Layla said. "You just said that guns don't work."
The man in the chair lunged forward hard enough that he nearly pitched himself to the ground. "Shoot him in the head," Porter told her. "Do it fast."
Layla looked at the soldier guarding him, and nodded. "I need to radio Collinson. Whatever's going on, we need out of here."
"All of us," Masuku said. "That includes me and the Sister and kids."
Layla met his eyes, then nodded. "I'll do what I can." She left the tent, and Porter followed her. A few seconds later, there was the report of a pistol from the tent behind them.
~~~
"We're getting reports of similar activity in Basra and Tehran. North Korea's blacked out, but Seoul is reporting rioting in the streets," Collinson said, his voice crackling over the satellite connection.
"What's happening there?" asked Porter, leaning over Layla to look at the screen.
Collinson took just a second too long to answer. "Nothing concrete. Just rumors and hysteria." Porter felt Layla tense and understood that she knew Collinson was lying as well. "Listen, John. London is fine. We're making sure families of active duty personnel are sequestered, but it's just a precaution. Diane and Lexi will be with me and the girls. I'll take care of them." He looked down at some papers that someone had handed him. "We don't want to risk sending a team out to where you are. Africa's the hardest hit by this right now. You're going to have to get out of there under your own power. We've got a team on standby in Jo-burg to debrief you and get you back home."
Layla nodded. "Yes, sir. We've still got adequate transport and fuel, if we're careful."
"Definitely be careful. Until this is under control, you're going to be on your own," said Collinson.
When they rang off, Porter snorted. "Do you really believe him?"
"Which part?" Layla stood up and closed the laptop. "That everything's fine at home or that he's ever actually planning to get us there?"
"Either," he said.
She gave him a grim smile. "I think you heard the man. We're on our own."