Evolve Read online

  They were named after the sky god found in some African mythologies. Shango carried a large double-headed axe as his primary weapon, fitting the look of the dual machine guns perfectly.

  The MH-60M variant was originally designed for the US Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, dubbed the “Night Stalkers,” piloted by the best the military had to offer. They were routinely sent into the worst conditions during times of war. The SDF now had two such pilots at their disposal until further notice, Night-1 and Night-2.

  The original Blackhawk, Kipanga, meaning hawk in Swahili, was destroyed in the attack on the base last month, falling from the night sky. Mo, their pilot, and dear friend was inside it when it did. They still weren’t exactly sure what happened and why it crashed, but all they could figure was that when the brute of a creature, Shetani, made it inside via a large leap from the Bullpen’s roof, Mo must have been severely injured and decided that cutting the power to Kipanga’s main rotor, and subsequently dropping from over a hundred feet up, was the only way to kill it.

  The new lift would take Shango-1 to the roof where two huge doors quickly slid out of the way. Once the helo was in the air, they’d again close and the platform would retreat back to its starting position on the second floor. Now, they’d be able to store the chopper inside, making it easier to access for loading, repairs, or just general maintenance.

  When the CIA approached Logan with the changes they wanted to make to the damaged roof, Logan just shrugged and said, “Hell if I care. It already has a hole in it.”

  “Why don’t you take a soak and try to go down early tonight?” Fitz asked as he walked away. “The jets might just calm your noggin down enough to get some decent shuteye.”

  “Tried,” Logan replied, stepping over to the inner railing. He then leaned on it, eyeing the perfect aircraft for any flaws he could fix, but not finding any. “Doesn’t work.” He really needed a hobby.

  “Fine, shots it is,” Fitz quipped, almost to the living quarters. “I’ll wrangle up the others and we’ll have a gay old time tonight before we leave.”

  “Gray, you know I don’t—”

  “It wasn’t a request, Captain,” Fitz shouted, his voice echoing around the large cylindrical room. “We need you alert in the morning more than we need your vigilance tonight. At worst, you’ll be relaxed. Try to enjoy yourself a little before you die of a mental breakdown.” Fitz turned and smiled. “I’d hate to have to put a bullet in you myself all the way out in Cameroon, or wherever the hell it is we’re going.”

  Logan didn’t know what to say.

  “Besides,” Fitz yelled now out of sight, behind the other side of the Blackhawk, “BP-2 has nightshift this week. It’s not like you’re going anywhere either way. Why not get shitfaced with your buddy instead of wallowing away in self-pity?”

  As he heard Fitz’s still wet feet slapping against the concrete floor of the living quarters’ hallway, Logan’s shoulders dropped. He’d been successfully neutered by Fitz’s relentless barrage. The guy could beat you into submission with just his words.

  Logan really didn’t have a viable excuse not to have a good night tonight with his mates. Bullpen-2, AKA, BabyBull, did, in fact, have nights this week. The crew of BP-1 literally had nothing to do unless World War Three broke out.

  “Drinks it is,” he said to himself, heading in the same direction as Fitz. But instead of turning left and going to his room, Logan continued along the metal catwalk surrounding Shango-1. Rethinking his decision not to fire up the hot tub, he started climbing the stairs. They led to the third floor, home to the Observation Deck. It was the SDF command center and Logan’s personal safe space. While there, he zoned out and did his thing, leading the most technological non-enlisted military unit in all of Africa.

  Probably even techier than even the current armies of the world, he thought as he climbed, still marveling over Shango-1 and its jet-black paint job. Yes, some of the equipment they had now blew away even the stuff they used while in the SAS. Of course, that was years ago and technology had advanced quite a bit since he was in the service, but still, the company definitely gave them some amazing new toys to play with.

  He stopped at the uppermost landing leading into the ObDeck and sighed, looking over the whole of BP-1’s interior. “Hopefully, we won’t need most of it.”

  Logan knew that if they actually required what they were bringing, they could just as well wage war on every living thing in the rainforest, not just the Verbraucher.

  He turned and entered, heading for his desk at the center of the large room. But if it comes to that and the Eaters are real and still active…it may necessitate another war to stop them.

  4

  Kigoma Airport

  Kigoma, Tanzania

  She impatiently waited for her newest clients to arrive. They were scheduled to land within the hour and then they’d refuel and head out to the northern reaches of the Congolese rainforest.

  Hopefully, before nightfall.

  While she was an expert tracker and guide, even she wouldn’t normally venture into the uninhabited jungles unannounced, or at night. Her people believed there to be other things within the Congo besides the various tribes and what have you—things modern man had yet to discover, or in some of the creature’s cases, discover again.

  Then again, she thought, you have to survive and tell the tale for it to be properly ‘discovered.’

  Kiani N’ta was born in the heart of the DRC, in a village she’d rather not remember, and had lived much of her youth within a small group of people. Then, when she was little, outsiders came, preaching about a man named, Jesus Christ. She and the others were offered education and modern technology as well as their “salvation.” She didn’t even know she needed saving at the time—none of them did. The explorers—missionaries—intrigued Kiani so much that she left her people when she was old enough and physically able to endure the trek, making her way to the nearest developed city.

  It took her almost two weeks of traveling alone, all by foot, but eventually she made it. There she quickly found work as a guide and tracker for rich white Europeans. Even in her late teens, she was highly regarded within the region. Her innate ability—her sixth sense—was revered by those who admired her. But it was also repulsed by those competing for work—work she’d taken.

  The Aussies and Americans coming to her now were her latest catch in a long line of customers willing to pay top dollar for her services. She wasn’t picky either. As long as they paid, Kiani would take anyone anywhere.

  On one occasion, she was even offered twice her salary if she’d become more than just a guide to a group of boisterous hunters. All of them easily outmuscled her and could have forced themselves upon her tall lean frame. As of now, she barely looked to be out of her teens let alone in her early thirties. Her mother looked the same, but in her sixties, easily passing for ten to fifteen years younger. She doubted those men would have cared whether she was “of age” or not, and once the first one failed at his attempt of her, and his wrist and elbow broken, the rest backed down, understanding she was more than just looks.

  Kiani may have looked like prey, but in truth, she was a predator to the core. You had to be one to survive in this part of the world—especially as a woman.

  She even accepted and kept the increased wages the hunters had promised to her for servicing them, of which she had no intention of fulfilling. She didn’t need the added bonus, but she did need to prove a point. Those men, and all the men they told, would quickly see that the chestnut-skinned beauty with the high cheek bones was more than just eye candy for those that wanted a “taste of Africa.” It’s what they called her behind her back.

  Spending what seemed like an eternity in the jungle had its benefits, though. Kiani’s hearing and sense of smell had become hypersensitive over the years, proving to be a valuable tool for someone in her profession.

  Not that they really tried to keep their voices down for me ‘not’ to hear, sh
e thought, again recalling the vile men.

  They bragged and bet one another about who’d be the first to have a go with her. They even thought that speaking in their native German tongue would cover their intentions. Oops… What they failed to understand was that Kiani made her living communicating with tourists. She spoke a variety of languages, including German, English, and three native dialects, studying them if only to pad her resume, and cost, further.

  Her phone rang, returning her attention to the present and the job at hand. She yanked the object out of the satchel on her hip, producing a large yellow satellite phone. Cell phones didn’t cut it out in the wild. Towers were nonexistent where they were going. Even the sat-phones wouldn’t work on occasion. It was one of many reasons why the Congo was still so unexplored. The risk of getting lost with no communication to the outside world was too great for some to risk it.

  But not these ones, she thought as she answered.

  “This is Kiani,” she said, in her clipped English.

  “G’day, Ms. N’ta. This is Cassidy Reed with the SDF.”

  Kiani smiled. She liked this one. She was fiery, having met her once at a conservation conference in Kenya. Kiani wasn’t there for the same reason as the Aussie, however. She was there to advertise her business and look for potential clients.

  And it worked.

  “Yes, Ms. Reed, hello. How long until you arrive?”

  She heard the Aussie ask someone in the background.

  “Um, about another thirty minutes or so. Is everything ready to go there?”

  Kiani hated it when people asked her that. She was always prepared, but she knew it was second nature for people to ask such a thing. She didn’t detect any distrust in Ms. Reed either. The woman was genuinely interested in knowing how things were coming along.

  “Yes, it is,” she calmly replied in her practiced tone. “Everything is as you asked.”

  They finished a few minutes later and signed off. As Kiani looked around instinctively searching for watchful eyes, she returned the sat-phone to its carrier, buckling it shut. She now had another half hour to kill and desperately needed something to do. She loathed having to wait around, killing the daylight hours—especially at a place like this. Kigoma Airport was really nothing more than a hole in the wall with a single airstrip.

  In Kiani’s opinion, the word airport really didn’t fit. It was technically one by definition, but was so small it only had the one runway. She couldn’t imagine there being another one with such limited resources as this.

  Feeling the hot air blow by her, she glanced left, seeing what passed for the VIP lounge. She smiled when she noticed the Kigoma Pub next door. The only difference between the two was that the lounge was indoors and air-conditioned. The pub, however, stood off to one side, its flanks made of dried wood panels and what looked like rope or twine. There weren’t even windows or a door.

  Unlike this place, her newest clients were well funded.

  They also had an interesting destination. They were looking for a reclusive tribe within the most uncharted region in the Congo. Originally, she passed on the contract, not needing or wanting the trouble or the potential danger for that matter. She’d heard of too many people vanishing within the trees over the years. Most witnesses, if there were any, suspected it was the same tribe responsible for every disappearance—a group of people she knew all too well, at least, she thought she did. It was like a living dream or something close to it. She wasn’t sure if she actually experienced them firsthand or not. It was like her brain was trying to block or repress the encounter.

  Unlike the others in her line of work, she wholeheartedly believed that she’d seen them with her own eyes. She truly remembered witnessing their bloodlust like she was right there in the thick of it, but the memories were sketchy at best, like a dream you can’t remember, but know you had. The details were shrouded in fog.

  How the SDF knew to seek her out regarding this was unknown. The only thing she could think of was the American government had somehow found out and relayed it to the Aussie captain. She’d told very few people about her visions, mostly passing them off as stories from others to spice up the mood around the campsite.

  They were truly ghosts.

  But Kiani knew that if you charted the various myths throughout the region and put two-and-two together, it all pointed to one unique answer. They pointed to one specific sect of people within the jungles… The Ru’kan. The locals living in the towns and villages bordering the rainforest had another name for them, though.

  “The Devil’s Children,” she said aloud, thinking it would be easier on her emotions to speak it and not think it.

  She’d heard what happened in the Serengeti recently—the whole world did. It was said a Nazi experiment went wrong years ago but was successfully covered up…until now. It verified some of the stories she’d heard from the eldest of locals. It was said a Nazi expedition traveled south and actually killed one of the Ru’kan. While most in the area believed in the tribe, none had gone out of their way to verify that they actually existed. It took seventy-plus years for the world to learn about the Nazi occupation of Tanzania. Why would they also believe in stories told by her? So, she kept them to herself, figuring no one would accept them as truth.

  It was all up for debate…until now. Most of the tales before last month were little more than that of a crazy person’s, having little, to no, credibility to work off of. Most of the legends changed as the years went by, but one thing stayed consistent with them all. If you encountered the Ru’kan, you didn’t survive.

  She’d kept track of the sightings, however, just in case, inputting the information into her GPS tracking unit and charting detections on a wall-mounted map in her home. When she logged the newest sighting her map got another red pin, and with every pin, she felt more and more like a Sasquatch hunter, chasing something of a pure myth. But is it a myth? She wouldn’t say yes or no, either way, not until it was proven one or the other. In actuality, the locator pins were really used to steer clear of the marked spots.

  “But now we go straight to them.” She shook her head at the absurdness. “The money better be worth it.” But as she contemplated what they’d find, Kiani wasn’t really sure if it was the job or the potential find that intrigued her.

  Turning, she headed for the VIP lounge, needing a short break from the heat. While a common look for the women of this region, Kiani’s shaved head could only take so much abuse when uncovered and out in the open. What little hair she did have wouldn’t be enough to ward off the unrelenting African sun.

  As she moved forward, she pulled a handkerchief from her back pocket and tied it around her head. It wouldn’t keep all of the blistering UV rays off of her, but it would help. The short buzz cut was intended for the humidity of the forest. Longer hair was unmanageable in the thick air and unpleasant to deal with. She’d seen a few American women pass through over the years, their golden, flowing shoulder-length hair always ended up plastered to their necks and faces. She’d even seen a man from Denmark come through with perfectly styled hair only to have it a sticky mess as the product in it melted and dripped down his forehead.

  No thanks, she thought.

  She stopped her thoughts, looking off into the distance, seeing the Congo’s tree line with her mind’s eye. Closing her eyes, she visualized the natural shade the canopy provided. In the winter months, when the humidity wasn’t as oppressive, the rainforest could be quite pleasant.

  Soon…

  Kiani’s heart truly belonged in the wild. She lived for it just as her ancestors did. Some followed her out of the primitive ways they were born into, but some chose to stay behind and dig in even deeper, foregoing technology and continuing to live off the land. Even a few set out looking for the oldest of them all. She didn’t understand why anyone would willingly seek out the mythical Ru’kan. What she did know is that there were others tribes within the Congo that actually admired them—like they were gods or something.
r />   Maybe they were?

  She remembered hearing of their magic when she was little—another of the legends. Supposedly, they couldn’t be killed, eating the meat and drinking the blood of those they captured and sacrificed. When she was a child, the elder of her village once said that a member of the Ru’kan would gain the years of their last kill, adding them onto their own lifespan.

  Kiani shook her head at the ridiculousness of it all, and yet, her warm, sweat-covered skin broke out in a cold shiver. Every time she thought about the Ru’kan her body would react as such. She wasn’t sure why, though. Was there more to her life than what she could remember? Was this a sign of that?

  It was a strange sensation nevertheless. Unlike others, Kiani’s childhood started at the age of eight. Anything before that was a haze. Her mother said it was due to a battle with sicknesses that clouded the memory of her youth. It wasn’t until the missionaries gave her antibiotics that her thoughts began to clear.

  Maybe it really was the sickness?

  She shook the thought away. Thinking of such things when there was a job to do wouldn’t help anyone right now. Once this contract was over, she’d look into it more. She’d go back home for the first time in almost a decade and ask the questions she needed answers to. As of now, the gap in her memory would have to wait.

  The Ru’kan currently called to them and she needed to be completely prepared for everything if she wanted to keep herself and her clients alive.

  Unconsciously, she stroked the handgrip to the holstered gun strapped firmly to her right thigh. If the stories were true and she was able to lead the SDF hunters to the spectral tribe, then…she’d be ready.

  5