The Congo Extraction: A Mercenary’s Midnight Mission
This story didn’t make it into Debra’s book Dirty Business:
The Call of Duty
Let me paint a picture for you. Wes and I aren’t your typical mercenaries. We don’t go in guns blazing unless we need to. We don’t screw around, and we don’t do half-assed jobs. When we’re called in, it’s because nobody else is crazy – or smart – enough to pull it off. And this mission? It was a doozy.
A rich industrialist needed a high-profile hostage yanked out of a prison camp in the middle of the godforsaken Congolese jungle. The hostage, John Weaver, was sitting on intel so hot, it could burn down entire governments. The corrupt Congolese regime was holding him hostage, working hand-in-hand with the local militias and kidnapping international VIPs for profit. They didn’t know Weaver’s true value – or maybe they did – but they sure as hell knew they’d struck gold.
Our client was willing to pay top dollar to get Weaver out. Not just alive, but intact. The kind of cash that makes even us risk life and limb. And for that kind of money? You bet we’d crawl through the jungle and sneak into a heavily armed compound at midnight. What could possibly go wrong, right?
The Jungle Ghosts
Here’s the thing about sneaking into a prison camp in the middle of nowhere: It’s a lot like playing hide-and-seek – except the other guy’s got an AK-47 and a serious attitude problem. Wes and I had spent days watching the camp, scoping out every guard, every blind spot, and every lazy bastard who liked to snooze on duty. Our entry point? The western side, where the jungle practically kissed the perimeter fence. Pitch black, no lights, and just a few guards too busy scratching their asses to notice us.
We moved in like shadows, low to the ground, every step careful, deliberate. Silenced pistols in hand, we dropped two guards near the fence with a puff of air and a single shot each. No alarms, no screams, just silence. As we slipped through the hole we’d cut in the fence, I couldn’t resist a quick glance at Wes.
“Like taking candy from a heavily armed baby,” I muttered.
Wes just grinned. He wasn’t much for words when we were on the job. Not unless you count him shouting, “Take cover!” or “Incoming!”
Inside the camp, things got a little trickier. The central building where they were keeping Weaver was concrete – no flimsy plywood or makeshift huts here. The bigwigs in charge didn’t want their prize walking out. Too bad they hadn’t counted on us walking in.
Wes and I moved fast, sticking to the shadows as guards wandered their patrol routes like they were in some bad B-movie. We reached the building and found the door locked – obviously. But a little breaching charge later, and we were inside, silent as death.
Weaver’s Cell – Let’s Go!
Once inside, it was a whole different ball game. The building stank of sweat and despair. Rows of cells lined the walls, each one holding a prisoner. We found John Weaver slumped in cell four, looking like he hadn’t seen daylight in weeks. Thin, bruised, but still breathing.
“Weaver?” I whispered.
“Depends who’s asking,” he croaked.
“Your ride out of here,” Wes said, unlocking the door and helping him to his feet.
Weaver was in rough shape, but adrenaline has a way of making even the half-dead move like they’re running a marathon. We hauled him out of the cell and made a break for the fence. That’s when it all went to hell.
Shit Hits the Fan
There’s a sound in the jungle you never want to hear when you’re on a sneaking mission: a flare firing into the sky. The red light illuminated the entire camp, turning night into day, and our cover was blown.
The alarms went off like someone had just told them their paychecks were delayed. The guards, half-asleep just seconds ago, were suddenly wide awake, and bullets started flying.
“So much for quiet,” Wes said, pulling Weaver behind cover as I popped off a few rounds, dropping two guards in the tower.
“Quiet’s overrated,” I shot back, reloading. “Move!”
We sprinted for the hole in the fence, gunfire cracking behind us like popcorn. Wes tossed a grenade over his shoulder, and the explosion sent a couple of guards flying through the air like ragdolls. Not gonna lie – sometimes explosions are a work of art.
Savannah Showdown
Once we hit the treeline, it was time for Plan B – or rather, Plan A with a lot more firepower. Two motorcycles sat waiting for us under a camo net. I slapped Weaver onto the back of Wes’s bike and gunned my own engine, the roar of the machines cutting through the night.
No sooner had we hit the gas than we heard the growl of truck engines behind us. The militia wasn’t letting us off that easy. They came after us, bouncing over the uneven terrain like madmen, headlights bouncing, and guns blazing.
The savannah stretched out before us, vast and open, no place to hide. The trucks barreled toward us, closing in fast, their gunmen hanging out the windows like it was some kind of Mad Max fever dream. I twisted the throttle, trying to put distance between us and the crazies behind us.
“Why is it always a damn chase scene?” I shouted to Wes, firing over my shoulder. A bullet smashed into the nearest truck’s windshield, and it swerved, crashing into a rock.
“Because life hates us!” Wes called back, yanking the handlebars to avoid a pothole.
The trucks kept coming. One was on my tail, its gunner spraying bullets wildly in my direction. I pulled out my pistol, aimed over my shoulder, and fired. Three shots. One hit the driver square in the chest, and the truck careened off course, flipping in a cloud of dust and flames.
But there were more.
Beach or Bust
By some miracle, we reached the coast. The savannah gave way to sand, and the distant roar of the ocean filled the air. We didn’t stop, racing straight for the water where our escape plan awaited – a dinghy, hidden under a tarp at the edge of the beach.
We skidded to a halt, pulling Weaver off the bike and dragging him into the dinghy as the militia’s trucks screeched to a stop at the water’s edge. They opened fire, their bullets chewing up the sand around us.
“Come on, come on!” I shouted as Wes revved the outboard motor.
We hit the water just as another round smashed into the beach, spraying sand into the air. The motor roared to life, and we sped away, leaving the militia cursing our existence as we cut through the waves, heading for The Undertaker – my sleek white yacht anchored two miles offshore.
“I think I’m getting seasick,” Weaver muttered.
“You’ll live,” I said, scanning the shoreline behind us. “If you’re lucky.”
Welcome Aboard The Undertaker
The yacht loomed ahead, a black shadow against the horizon. We pulled alongside, and the crew helped us aboard. Weaver collapsed onto the deck, panting and pale but alive.
Wes leaned against the railing, catching his breath. “Well, that was fun,” he said, grinning like a maniac.
“Define fun,” I replied, holstering my weapon. “If ‘fun’ means nearly getting shot, blown up, and chased by psychopaths, then yeah, sure, it was a blast.”
But we had done it. We had extracted the hostage, made it through the jungle, survived the chase, and were now heading for international waters. Mission accomplished. And for the amount of cash we were about to receive? Yeah, it was worth it.
The yacht’s engines roared to life, and as we sailed away from the Congo coast, I couldn’t help but feel that familiar surge of satisfaction. Another day, another successful job. The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon, casting a golden glow over the ocean.
I stood on deck, watching the coastline fade into the distance.
“Hey,” Wes said, nudging me. “What’s next?”
I smirked, leaning back against the railing. “Whatever pays the most. And let’s hope it doesn’t involve more savannah chases. Elephants are scary!”
But deep down, we both knew it probably would. The mercenary life is never boring.