Beyond the Rails 3: Slayer of Darkness

Chapter 22

Hippo Point Monday morning

          Jinx sat up in the bare cell, feeling weak and light-headed. The drug Reinhard had used to defeat her inhibitions was wearing off, or so she assumed from her improving mental state, but her body felt numb and tingly at the same time, like when a foot or a hand was “asleep,” only everywhere at once. Lying on the cot in her cell, she took the time to examine her surroundings. There were plenty of items to use for weapons, but none within reach. She had no idea what would happen when they came for her, but someone, or more likely someones, would open the cell to get her out, and that was when she would have to make her play. She had no idea of the time, only that it was dark, and now that Reinhard had finished with her, she had to assume that she was a liability to him, to be disposed of at the earliest convenience. It was time to go.
          The first thing to find was a weapon. There was nothing in the cell but the cot, so that would have to provide it. Rolling off and dropping to her knees, she looked underneath. It was a standard army cot of the sort issued by military forces throughout Europe and the New World, and why not? Who would be thinking of the rudest of beds as a source of weaponry?
          Thinking of her bed in exactly those terms, Jinx pushed it against the bars separating her cell from the next, sat on the floor, and thrust her legs out, kicking the crossed wooden rods supporting the canvas sleeping surface as hard as she could, repeatedly, in a direction they were not meant to go. It was quick work to break them off from the frame, yielding an X of two lightweight but strong sticks hinged at their center. She crouched, putting her foot on one end of the upper arm, and levered the opposite end up toward herself. Weakened by the rivet allowing them to pivot, it broke with a sharp snap, producing a foot of wood with a jagged end. The other retained its original nearly yard-long length. Turning the cot so that the damaged end was concealed against the back wall, she propped it up with one of the short sticks. Not perfect, but in the dim light, it should suffice. Seated on the floor, she considered her weapons. Two sticks, one a yard long, one half that with a jagged end. They would have to do.
          The fighting discipline she had been taught by Lord Weaver’s Master at Arms was a mix of Silat and Kuntao, fighting styles from the islands of Indonesia that allowed and trained for the use of any sort of weapon, primarily knives and sticks. Her trainer had been ultimately pragmatic, imparting nothing of the spiritual aspects, but teaching only techniques that were easy to execute and devastating to the recipient. Jinx had been one of his star pupils. Gripping the short stick in her right hand and the long one in her left, she laid face-down on the concrete floor, drawing the sticks underneath so they were covered by her clothing, and settled in to wait.
          Her wait was not a long one. She estimated no more than five minutes had passed before she heard the door at the top of the stairs open and multiple sets of footsteps begin to descend. She took a deep breath in through her mouth to calm her nerves and settle the adrenaline she could feel surging into her system.
          Be small, she told herself. Be weak and helpless.
          The footsteps stopped, as she knew they would, outside her cell. She heard keys jingling, and an African accented voice called out, “Get up. We’re going to take you to a party.”
          She didn’t move or respond in any way.
          “Bwana used too much medicine, maybe,” the other said, followed by the first one’s snicker.
          “We carry her then,” the first one said. “I’m not taking forty lashes because the bwana can’t get his poison right.”
          The bolt slid back, and the door opened. One of them stood to her right side and gripped her by her upper arms.
          “Let’s go, wench. Time’s a w—”
          His clever banter was cut short as she spun to her left, out of his grasp, thrust the splintered end of the short stick into his partner’s face, barely missing his eye, and whipped the long stick across, striking the lifter on the temple.
          Both fell back in deep surprise, but she didn’t wait to see what their response might be. The long stick whistled back, cutting the air, to smack perfectly on the partner’s cheekbone. She felt it give, almost certainly cracking under the impact, and jabbed at it with the short stick. He went completely defensive, covering his face and turning into the bars.
          She turned back into the first one, recovering from his surprise and pain, and reaching out for her. She knew that his mind and focus were on her weapons, the sticks, so she leaned away and shot a side kick to the outer edge of his kneecap. His weight wasn’t distributed correctly for her to dislocate his knee, but it made him pitch forward, and she rained blows on his face with both sticks, whipping with the long, gouging at his eyes with the short. When he covered up, she glanced back at his partner to see him just pulling himself together, and jabbed the base of the long stick at his damaged cheekbone, this time feeling the sickening crunch of breaking bone, and seeing his eye drop a fraction of an inch on his face. That coupled with his long moan told her that he was out of the fight.
          Going back to work on the first one, she brought his desperate guard up with another series of strikes to face, always the face, causing both searing pain and psychological paralyzation, as most people will instinctively protect their face at all costs. Once she had his arms and his attention up, a hard kick to the crotch settled it. The air flew out of him with a painful grunt, and he dropped to the fetal position, rolling and moaning.
          She turned her attention to the partner, but he simply held his hands out before him and shook his head. She pointed to the back corner of the cell, and he moved meekly to the spot she indicated. Stooping to the first guard, she took the keys he had dropped, and examined him for weapons. Maddeningly, neither of them carried a firearm. There seemed to be a “no firearms in the basement” policy in force here, and it was working in terms of denying her a gun as well as frustrating her to no end. At least the man carried a smallish knobkerrie thrust through his belt. She took that, kicked his legs all the way into the cell, and shut and locked the door.
          Jinx was out of her cage, but she was still a long way from freedom.

Hippo Point 12:30 AM

          Jinx took a cursory look at some of the piled gear opposite the cells, but saw nothing more suited to her hand than the knobkerrie. With a mental shrug, she moved quickly and quietly to the stairs, paused to listen, and started carefully up, attention on the room beyond the door, which was open. Voices could be heard speaking quietly in the distance, then she froze as one spoke jarringly loud.
          “We have a task to complete for Mr. Reinhard, then I will look into it.”
          The funny little man called Mutala backed into the door frame, then turned to descend. He froze in turn when he saw Jinx on the stairs, then reached to the side of the door to retrieve a small pistol.
          Jinx darted down the stairs and turned right toward the room where she had been interrogated, getting out of the line of fire. A stick against a pistol was bad business, but the girl had spent her whole life improvising. She drew back against the near wall of the narrow hallway, giving him the sharpest possible angle for his shot. She assumed he wouldn't just be stupid enough to barge in after her, and readied the knobkerrie for a throw.
          As she expected, he appeared with his back to the far wall, taking his time, looking over the sights of his pistol. The light was dim in the basement, and his eyes may have still been adjusting, but for whatever reason, he didn't fire. Knowing she had mere seconds to act, she threw the knobkerrie as hard as she could straight at his face, and followed it on the run.
          He saw the blurry shape streaking out of the darkness and ducked, the stick hitting the wall where his face would have been, and as he stood back up, she was on him in a savage attack, grabbing both wrists and head-butting the bridge of his nose. He fell back against the wall, and she turned between his arms, grabbed his gun hand with both of hers, and with her back to him, levered him over her shoulder to slam to the concrete floor in front of her. Never releasing his hand, she spun in a full circle above him, twisting his wrist in ways it was never designed to go, and the gun fell to the floor. He reached for it, but she kicked it to the side, and it slid far back underneath the wood plank stairs. He used her shift in weight to pull her off balance, kicking her in the backside to drive her off his wrist. Both scrambled to their feet as he drew a six-inch utility knife and slashed the air in front of him a couple of times, advancing to hem her into a confined space.
          “Very clever, young wench,” he said, keeping the knife moving in front of him. “Let’s see how you handle a man who’s ready for you.”
          He darted in quickly, slashed at her without effect, and darted back, keeping his weight centered between his feet; having been thrown once, he had no desire to allow her to repeat the performance.
          Jinx, for her part, kept her feet wide and her weight low, arms out to the ten and two positions. Her training was thorough, her attitude one of win at all costs, and her record in combat gave her good reason to believe that she could defeat any man anywhere near her own size. The knife was a complication, but it could work for her as well as against her; when a man held a weapon, that was where his focus centered, often forgetting that he had two legs and another hand. She shuffled in quickly, sliding her feet, and feinted at his face. She yanked her arm back as the blade came across, dropped her weight, and kicked his knee with the side of her foot.
          He staggered back, plainly hurt, and flexed his knee, trying to shake off the pain. His eyes narrowed in a way another observer might have interpreted as dangerous. To Jinx it was a victory; the angrier a man became, the less he thought about what he was doing.
          “Hurts, doesn’t it, you stupid git?” she taunted, throwing fuel on the fire. “Wait ’til you see what else I have planned. I’m going to enjoy stomping your face into the concrete. You slimy little coward, you can’t even terrorize a woman properly. Where did Reinhard find you, selling pencils on a street corner? What does he do with the money he saves by not having to pay a professional?”
          Eyes alight, growling like a wild animal, he charged her, slashing back and forth, backing her toward the wall. Sensing the obstruction coming up behind her, she let his forehand slash go by, leaning back to avoid it, then stepped into him, wrapping her right arm over his before the backhand could start back, stepped behind his leg, and pulled back on his head with her left, forcing him to fall backward. He grabbed her arm with his free hand as he fell, rolling her across to land on her back beside him, and then they were grappling.
          Jinx still held his knife hand, and wasn’t about to release it. She held the advantage of position as well, facing his body while he faced away from her. Grasping his short, curly hair as best she could, she banged his face on the floor, though not anywhere near hard enough to do any real damage, and began to work her way on top of him. Feeling her weight shift, he let her get almost atop him, then rolled violently to his left, throwing her off the other side, but as she overbalanced and toppled off, her legs snapped around his waist, squeezing with all the force their toned muscles could muster.
          This wasn’t going to win the fight either, in fact, under other circumstances, he would have considered it foreplay, but it served to hold him in place. As he moved to shift the knife to his left hand, she reached up and over with her left arm, got it in front of him, and began to rapidly elbow him in the face, the blows coming like the rapid-fire strokes of a piston. He made a whining noise of pure pain and tried to catch her elbow. She heard the clatter of the knife falling to the floor, and before he could think to reach for it, she ceased the elbow strikes and began to scuttle back away from it on her elbows, the grip of her legs dragging him with her. She kept him moving until the knobkerrie was in reach as he pried at her locked ankles. Picking it up, she swung it hard, the heavy knob striking his ribcage on the far side. His sudden cry of pain told her that a rib or two had broken. Without hesitation, she swung it again, this time in an uppercut taking him under the jaw. He stopped struggling, stopped moving at all.
          She released her grip and crouched beside him, moving his head back and forth. He didn't even groan, though he was still breathing. She for her part was woozy, light-headed. Obviously, the after-effects of Reinhard’s drug were still with her, and she decided that she wasn’t quite ready to take on a house full of armed thugs for the moment. She picked up Mutala’s knife and slipped it into the sheath built into her boot, then used the knobkerrie to reach under the stairs and pull his pistol to her. It was a Mauser Zig-Zag, an odd little piece named for the deep grooves in the cylinder that aligned the chambers for each shot. She had seen pictures of it in training, though she had never handled one, but her weapons trainer had spoken highly of Mauser weapons in general, and she was glad to have it. She checked the cylinder, finding five unfired rounds. Securing it in her trouser pocket, she found a convenient pile of gear and climbed to the top of the partitions, sliding into the narrow space above the false ceiling, and settled in to rest.
          It was going to be a long night.

Kisumu 12:45 AM

          Kestrel bobbed and dipped, tugging at her moorings in the freshening breeze. Captain Monroe stood at her starboard rail, dejected, looking out across the harbor to the little town of Kisumu. At least it seemed little until you tried to find one lost woman in it, then it became a metropolis rivaling London itself. Soft footsteps padded toward him from the foredeck, and he looked up to see Darweshi gliding toward him at her graceful, unhurried pace.
          “You’re still up?” he asked her by way of greeting.
          “I might ask the same of you, Nahodha. Patience finally found rest.”
          “That’s good.”
          “Yes. I could help you, as well.”
          “I’m not ready to rest. She has to be over in that town somewhere.”
          “In fact, she does not have to be at all. They have had plenty of time to move her. He could have taken her many saa’nne by now.”
          She leaned on the rail beside him as he processed this.
          “Did you find time to, you know, ask your spirits?”
          “I am surprised you ask. Most white Christians find what I do the devil’s work.”
          “I would shake hands with the devil if he would but tell me where she is.”
          “After I helped Patience to sleep, I went into Miss Jinx’s cabin. I put on her clothes, surrounded myself with her belongings, and asked the help of Kintu and Walumbe, but I felt nothing.”
          “Does that mean she’s dead?” Monroe asked, studying her eyes for what she might be leaving unsaid.
          “It may. If there is nothing of her life force to find, the spirits will not find it. But it also may mean that they choose not to speak to me.”
          “Seems a talent of marginal usefulness, then.”
          “When you were a child, Nahodha, did your parents explain all of their actions to you, or were you simply expected to accept their judgements on faith? We are less than children to the spirits. They show us what they choose.”
          “I’m sorry, Darweshi. Thank you for trying, at least.”
          “Thank you for understanding.”
          They stood at the rail together, watching the low, broken clouds sail rapidly across the harbor from the south, disappearing above the gasbag in their haste to be away. The Long Rain would start soon, and these harbingers made the last few weeks of flying a matter of some interest.
          “They are out late,” Darweshi said at length, pointing into the shadows. Monroe followed her arm to see two men moving into the light that threw its small circle around the loading ramp. They wore the uniform of the Colonial Police, and carried a stretcher-like platform with a strongbox on it. “I wonder what they want.”
          “We’ll find out soon enough,” he replied as they made directly for their dock.
          “Captain Monroe,” the front man shouted as they started up the ramp. When Monroe said nothing, he repeated, “Are you Captain Monroe?”
          “Yes I am, Sergeant. What seems to be on your mind?”
          “State business, Captain.” The man kept shouting as they sat their burden down, even though they were almost face-to-face. “This cargo must be delivered to Major Cole in Nairobi by morning. Your ship is being pressed into service. You are to leave at once.”
          “That’s out of the question!” Monroe exclaimed. “We are in the middle of our own pressing business here.”
          “I am sorry, Captain, but state business takes precedence.”
          “The hell it does, and why are you shouting. I’m not deaf.”
          “I am, Captain. I only have slight hearing in one ear.” The man rubbed his nose with his index finger, and while his mouth was covered, said quietly, “You are being watched.”
          “I apologize,” Monroe said, raising his own voice.
          “No need, Captain, but if you refuse this mission, my orders are to impound your ship, and a crew will be found to fly it to Nairobi without you. Do you refuse?”
          He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, no.
          “Under the circumstances, it seems I have no choice,” Monroe shouted back. “What is this cargo that cannot wait?”
          “I cannot say, Captain. It is merely a sealed box for Major Cole. I caution you not to tamper with it. You must sign here.” He took a message board from the frame and handed it to Monroe. It looked to be a more or less standard invoicing form for port-to-port shipping. Monroe took the stubby pen the man proffered from a pocket case, dipped it in the tiny bottle of ink, and signed his name, offering the pen back when he had.
          “A second copy must be signed as well,” the policeman said, refusing the pen.
          “I hope all this is worth it,” Monroe said, flipping up the top page and signing the second.
          “I’m sure it will be,” the policeman said, replacing his writing set in its case. He took the board, carefully separated the second copy from the sheaf of papers, and handed it to Monroe. “Read it carefully, Captain. It contains important instructions. Due to the urgency of the matter, I am told to instruct you to rouse your crew now. With decent flying conditions, you can be in Nairobi by the start of business.”
          “You want me to fly all night in a storm?”
          “Your pilot is well-known throughout the colony, in fact, she is the reason your ship was chosen. I’m certain you will manage. Be sure to read the instructions, Captain. Have a safe trip.” He clicked his heels as he saluted, and led his man away.
          “Well, a fine development this is,” Monroe grumbled, looking for the first time at the paper in his hand. Most of the blocks had been filled in with pencil and were barely legible in the dim light, but at the very top, where they would be hidden by the mechanism of the message board if anyone had turned back the top copy were four words in stark, black ink:

VILLA AT HIPPO POINT

          “Oh my God!” Monroe said with feeling, then put some exasperation into his voice for the benefit of their hidden watcher. “Get ready to fly, Darweshi. Looks like we’re leaving.”
          He stepped to the front of the pilot house and rang the eight-inch brass bell for a good two minutes as, one-by-one, the crew climbed the ladder in various states of dress, expecting an emergency in the nature of a fire or something similar. Instead, they found their captain waiting with a sheet of paper in his hand.
          “There is news,” he said quietly when they were gathered, keeping his voice soft so that it wouldn’t carry. “Someone in the Colonial Police office, probably Musa, has seen fit to point us in Jinx’s direction. Bakari, raise steam. Take Darweshi and be sure she knows how to stoke the boiler. David, rig the fowler. Patty, do you know where Hippo Point is?”
          “Yes, Captain,” she replied, rubbing her eyes, “it’s a swampy little spit near the harbor entrance.”
          “Well apparently there’s a house on it, and that’s where we’re going. I’ll brief what I know once the boiler’s lit and the cannon’s rigged. You may as well put on some coffee. You may stand to get a bit of revenge tonight, and you’ll need to be wide awake.”

Kisumu 2:00 AM

          Jubilee Bellouard stood in the shadows of a tumbledown tool shed at the head of one of the floating piers that was home to Kisumu’s scores of small fishing boats. Dressed in khaki shirt and trousers with her hair severely pulled back, wearing form-fitting boots and a pith helmet, her own men couldn't have recognized her had they been alive to try. The pistol strapped to her hip marked her as a woman not to be trifled with. Very few fishermen were out and about at this hour. The boats set out at dawn, and honest fishermen were busy absorbing their last couple of hours of sleep. The fisherman she sought this dark, blustery night stood a bit to the left of honest, and shortly, she heard footsteps approaching.
          The owner of those footsteps, a short, stocky black man, chest and shoulders well-developed from years of pulling the nets, walked past her place of concealment and stopped at the head of one of the piers.
          “Miss Jubal,” he called in a quiet voice. “Miss Jubal, are you here?”
          “Here, Paki,” she said, stepping from the shadows behind him.
          “Excellent, Miss Jubal,” he near-whispered. “Are you ready?”
          She reached down and hefted a cylindrical kit bag containing all she dared to carry, and slung the wide strap over her shoulder; she would be travelling light until she returned to civilization.
          “Let’s go.”
          “Where are the men you spoke of?”
          “Change of plans. It will just be me on this trip.”
          “As you wish. There is first the matter of payment.”
          “Of course there is,” she said sarcastically, taking a folded stack of Crown bank notes from her trouser pocket and handing it over. She watched while he thumbed through it in amazement and satisfaction. Twenty one-pound notes, likely more than a year’s wages for this man. It was a sad fact of life; let a body run into a stretch of bad fortune, and the vultures gathered like they could smell it.
          “Most satisfactory, Missy,” he said, beaming. “This way, please.”
          He led her down the floating pier, taking his time to allow her to find the tricky footing. As she followed him, a shadow caught her eye, and she looked up to see a dirigible passing low overhead, the low-slung twin airscrews marking her as the Kestrel.
          “This isn’t over, Bender, you bastard,” she growled low in her throat. "I’ll see you at the end of a rope, all of you!”
          “I am sorry, Missy?” her guide said, turning back.
          “Nothing, Paki, just thinking out loud. How long will it take to reach M’wanza?”
          “All day, Missy. We arrive late tomorrow night.”
          “Perfect.”
          M’wanza, in the Prussian colony of Tanganyika, sat at the southernmost point of Lake Victoria, serving the same function there as Kisumu did for Kenya. Without the rubies, of course, and the lack of rubies would mean that transportation to the coast would be a rough affair indeed. All for the best, she supposed; no one would be likely to follow her on this particular trip.
          Paki led her to one of the myriad of brightly decorated boats bobbing in the gentle wavelets at the pier, hopped across onto the foredeck, and took her hand to steady her as she stepped across. The boat was small and open, the only shelter the small deck over the bow that she had stepped onto. He untied the single line, took an oar, and pushed them back away from the pier. Freed from the mass of other boats, Paki again took her hand to help her step down into the bottom, hoisted a triangular sail up the single spindly mast, and moved to the rudder to guide them out toward the main channel.
          “Is there any place I can sleep?” she asked, looking around at the plank seats and the bare wooden ribs, small pools of water sloshing between them.
          “Up forward under the deck, Missy. My nets are rolled there. Spread them out and sleep on them.”
          No, she thought, looking at her guide incredulously, no one would follow this particular trail, even if they knew she had taken it.