him, Quinn rushed the door and made his way outside. He hesitated on the dormitory’s simple wooden steps—all of the buildings in Obike had been raised to keep out snakes and vermin, though Quinn thought the shady crawl spaces beneath had to be like breeding grounds—and scanned the village, seeking out the plumes of rising smoke.
Three fires, spaced well apart, and what could be their cause? Quinn shrugged off the question. That wasn’t his concern. The first job was to douse the fires before they spread and did more damage to the village. Hopefully, no one was injured yet and they would not have lost any vital supplies.
Quinn chose the blur of smoke and frantic action closest to his barracks, on his left, and moved in that direction. He had barely taken two strides past the corner, homing on his destination, when a strong arm clamped around his neck and someone dragged him backward, toward the shadows at the east end of the dormitory.
Quinn resisted, would’ve cried for help if he could speak, but speech and breath alike were suddenly denied him. With his fingernails, he tried to claw the arm that held him fast, but fabric stopped him gouging flesh. He kicked back, barefoot, striking someone’s shin without significant effect.
The needle jab behind his ear was almost insignificant, a pinch immediately followed by a chill, the numbness spreading to his face and scalp, then downward through his body. Quinn was startled when the arm released him, let him breathe again, but when he tried to turn and fight his legs would not obey the orders from his brain. They folded, let him fall into a dark void that had opened to receive him, sucking him forever downward toward the center of the Earth.
IT WAS ALMOST TOO EASY. The young man struggled briefly, shivered, then collapsed in Bolan’s arms, deadweight. Bolan half turned him, crouched to make the fireman’s carry work, and took the sleeper’s weight across his left shoulder.
There was no time to second-guess the dosage he’d injected, calculated in advance to drop an active male adult of five foot nine, weighing about 150 pounds. The object of his search had clearly lost some weight since those statistics were compiled, presumably because the Process Diet wasn’t big on building body mass, but would it make a crucial difference?
However Patrick Quinn reacted to the drug now coursing through his system, Bolan couldn’t stop to check his vitals on the spot. The first priority was to get out of Obike before someone discovered that a tall, armed man was making off with one of Master Gaborone’s happy campers. If that happened, Bolan could expect fireworks, and Quinn was likely to be injured, maybe killed, as a result.
The plan wasn’t to use him as a human shield, or to discard him in the bushes while the Executioner took out a troupe of sentries. His mission was supposed to be a soft probe, in and out before the heavies knew he’d been here, carrying a package that he hoped they wouldn’t miss in the confusion he’d created.
For a while, at least.
His luck held firm as Bolan made a beeline for the compound’s south perimeter. As planned, the fires he’d set had drawn the guards and villagers to find out what was wrong, then solve the problem as a group endeavor. Bolan gave them points for thinking on their feet and thanked his lucky stars for the brief lapse in discipline that left his way unguarded.
A HALF HOUR ELAPSED between the first harsh cry of “Fire!” and the last puff of smoke from sodden embers. Thirty minutes saw the fires extinguished, leaving those who fought them at a loss to understand how they’d begun. There was no correlation of the buildings that had burned—food storage, garden tools, clothing—nor any clear-cut reason why one of them, much less three, had suddenly burst into flame.
“Arson?”
Ahmadou Gaborone wasn’t precisely sure why it surprised him. He’d been warning of attacks against Obike since construction started on the village, but his sermons were theatrics for the most part, smoke and mirrors meant to keep the sheep in line.
Now he had smoke, all right, but there wasn’t a mirror to be seen.
“Yes, Master.” Nico Mbarga’s attitude was solemn as he answered. “Someone set the fires. Timed them to be discovered all at once, I think.”
“But why?”
Mbarga shrugged. “I don’t know, Master. When we find the one responsible, he’ll tell us.”
“Only one? There were three fires, Nico.”
“Master, it isn’t difficult. A bit of fuse, even a candle or a cigarette can make a simple timer. Certain chemicals, as well.”
“Who has such knowledge in Obike?”
Mbarga had to have felt Gaborone peering into his soul. He stiffened to a semblance of attention and replied, “As for the chemicals, Master, perhaps no one. But anyone who’s ever smoked or used a candle might be wise enough to place it in a twist of cloth or paper, even some dry grass. When it burns down…” Another shrug.
“A simple matter, then. But why would any member of our fold do such a thing?”
“Master, we’ve spoken of morale in camp since the Americans were here. It’s possible that someone wishes to depart but fears to tell you openly. In that case, a diversion might allow them to slip out while we were busy with the fires.”
“A traitor, then.” The word tasted bitter on Gaborone’s tongue.
“Perhaps only a coward, Master.”
“It’s the same thing, Nico. Those among my people who lack faith in me are traitors to the Process. They betray me and themselves.”
“Of course, sir.”
Another moment made it clear to Gaborone what had to be done. “We need a head count, Nico. Have your men assemble everyone, immediately. No excuses. None. If someone is too sick or lame to walk, have your men carry him outside. I want to see my people. If there is a traitor in the village, I must know his name and look into his eyes.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Go, then! Do it now!”
Mbarga ran to do as he was ordered, calling to his men along the way. Within five minutes, he’d retrieved the megaphone that Gaborone sometimes employed for sermons, braying orders now for every person in the village to assemble near the mess hall, falling into ranks by dormitories to be counted.
Mbarga did it well. He didn’t mention traitors or betrayal, rather claiming that the master wished to reassure himself that no one had been injured by the fires. It was a good excuse and went unquestioned, since Obike’s residents were long accustomed to surprise assemblies, lectures and the like.
Gaborone stood apart and watched as his people assembled, lining up in groups of ten or twelve, depending on the barracks they inhabited. He searched their faces, tried to scan their souls, seeking the foul rot of betrayal that he felt should stand out like a lesion on the flesh. It pained him that he couldn’t spot a traitor in the ranks. That failure made him wonder if his gifts were fading, if the secret voices had deserted him.
Impossible!
The gift of prophecy wasn’t a transient thing. When someone was selected as a messenger of God, that designation was a lifelong calling. Still, prophets were only human. They could make mistakes. And sometimes they could be deceived.
The head count took another thirty
