“The remote control for the explosive is in your pocket and you will have your hand on it at all times. The earpiece in your ear is connected to an open satellite link. There is a Ugandan native on the other side. If I say anything that is not in English, he will translate.”

“And if you say something I don’t like?”

“You will detonate the explosive.”

“Sounds about right,” Rapp said, grabbing a knapsack from behind his seat and stepping out. “Hold it together for a few more hours, Gideon. And then you can live out the rest of your life enjoying a little Dutch hospitality.”

Auma exited the other side and they came together at the front of the helicopter. A fatigue-clad man whose age was difficult to determine in the poor light ran up to them and bowed reverently. As expected, Rapp’s presence was completely ignored. He was nothing. Just another servant to their prophet.

The conversation was carried out in Swahili but, as promised, Rapp got a real-time translation in his right ear. Mostly pleas to be commanded, assurances that it would be an honor to die for his lord and master. Yada, yada, yada.

Auma, for his part, didn’t respond—the man in front of them apparently wasn’t worthy of that. Instead, they followed in silence as they were led along a randomly winding trail that had been cleared of rocks but was still tangled with foliage. Likely designed to not create a pattern that could be seen from above and bring an attack down on them. Their survival depended entirely on the jungle’s ability to hide them and their proximity to the DRC border.

What the jungle couldn’t hide, though, was the smell. The unmistakable stench of human decay hit first, eventually combining with the duller odor of open latrines. Rapp couldn’t see much through the darkness, but human figures occasionally separated from the gloom on either side of the rudimentary path. Some were completely still—likely the source of the rot that hung in the air. Others moved silently, almost drunkenly, to watch them pass. Probably the girls they’d enslaved. Or what was left of them.

The hard angles of the crosses were easier to make out, as were the bodies nailed to them. One man—boy, really—was still alive. He choked out a few entreaties as they passed, all dutifully converted to English by the translator in Rapp’s ear. There was nothing he could do for the kid and he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted from studying his operating environment. If he had to run, shit was going to get ugly. Auma’s followers would know the terrain like the back of their hands and their lack of discipline would work in their favor. All they had to do was fill the air in his general direction with lead. He was fast, but not fast enough to outpace a bullet.