The Book Of Schemes. Marcus Calvert

had knelt down in front of the priest and slowly – very slowly – cut through the flesh and bone of his left big toe with a small, hacksaw-shaped apparatus. The large Dutch mercenary was dressed like Truitt (minus the bomber jacket), with a Browning 9mm pistol in his left shoulder holster. A bag of torture implements rested on the floor. As the priest’s blood spurted onto Hiers’ thick hands, he completed the amputation. Even Truitt was a bit disgusted as the large mercenary picked up the bloody piece of Father Jaisalu and held it up for the priest to see.

      “You should take better care of your feet,” Hiers declared with a thick accent and a sick smile

      Truitt turned away from the screaming priest, lit himself a cigarette, and checked his watch. With a muttered profanity, the aging merc pulled out his radio.

      “Perimeter teams, you’re overdue. Report.”

      The only response was static. Hiers looked up as Truitt nervously drew the Desert Eagle again.

      “Perimeter teams … report!” Truitt bellowed.

      Again, nothing.

      “Interior team – we’ve been breached. Fall back to my location. Do you copy?”

      More static.

      The door to the room was blown open. Jaisalu wasn’t knocked back because his chair was bolted to the floor. Hiers wasn’t so lucky. He half-drew his handgun before the blast knocked him sideways. As the weapon skidded from his fingers, the Mikutu rushed in with a pair of throwing knives and sank them into Hiers’ throat with a one-handed throw. From his crouched perch in the corner, Truitt knew that the Mikutu hadn’t seen him yet.

      “To your right!” Jaisalu shouted.

      The Mikutu spun toward Truitt, another blade ready to throw, just in time to get shot in the chest. While the killer had body armor on, it couldn’t stop a fifty-caliber round. As he lay gasping for air, Truitt cautiously crept up to the door with a two-handed grip on his weapon. He glanced through the empty doorway, saw that the Mikutu was alone, and then relaxed.

      After all, he had won.

      “Finally got you, you sonuvabitch!”

      An eager relief filled Truitt as walked over to his victim, aimed for his torso, and emptied the clip. By the time the last shot echoed through the small room, the Mikutu lay dead at his feet.

      Truitt knelt, triumphantly pulled the mask off, and blinked in surprise. The corpse was not that of the village boy, who would’ve been in his late 20’s by now. The dead face he gazed upon belonged to a man in his early 40’s. His face was covered with wrinkles and old scars. Even in death, it held a quiet dignity. Truitt looked up at Jaisalu. But, judging from the old Jesuit’s equally-confused expression, he figured that the priest didn’t know him either.

      Suddenly, Truitt was knocked to the floor.

      A pair of strong hands grabbed him by the waist, from behind. Another pair grabbed his left arm. Another pair grabbed him by the right arm and disarmed him. A fourth pair seized his legs. Jaisalu couldn’t see them at first. But then they appeared before him – a roomful of transparent ghosts who looked like black African villagers. Some wore Western-style clothing. Others wore their tribal garb. Truitt found himself in the grip of eight male ghosts, who quickly lifted him over their heads. The mercenary looked down at them and screamed hysterically as he recognized some of their stern faces.

      “No! We killed you!” Truitt yelled with a trembling voice. “I remember your faces! We fucking killed you!”

      Without a word, the ghosts marched Truitt out of the room. A few more walked over to Hiers’ bag, grimly pulled out assorted sharp objects, and followed Truitt. Some of the other ghosts surrounded their fallen avenger and regarded him sadly. Four more male ghosts reverently carried him out of the room.

      A young girl picked up Hiers’ blood-covered saw and severed Jaisalu’s bonds.

      “You’re all Mikutu?” Jaisalu winced as he took off his pajama top and started to rip it apart to bandage his foot.

      One of the village elders approached. The old male ghost gave Jaisalu a kind smile.

      “Yes,” the ghost replied in broken English. “We came for our revenge.”

      “And that man was a Mikutu?”

      “Yes,” the ghost replied. “Omambu left the village when we converted to Catholicism. He believed in the Old Ways. When he heard what happened, he awakened our spirits. We helped him kill those responsible.”

      “What about the three villagers who got away?” Jaisalu asked, curious about their fate. “Where are they?”

      The old ghost laughed and shrugged.