But one boy in particular drew Max’s attention. He was not far from the raised plateau. Two Redshirts had just knocked him to the ground. One sat on the back of the Blueshirt’s legs, pinning him down. The other had a thin length of rope which he was using to whip the Blueshirt’s back. The boy’s howls could be heard all around the clearing. Some of the Blackshirts pointed and laughed. A few Redshirts dared to look. Without exception, the other Blueshirts averted their gaze, obviously scared that if they paid too much attention, they could meet the same fate. Sami, who stood next to Max, tensed.

  ‘Not now, Sami,’ Max whispered. ‘It’s not the time.’

  Sami nodded almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t stop watching.

  Babaka shouted something and Max felt himself being poked in the back. It was one of the Blackshirts, urging him on with the barrel of his rifle. Max stumbled forward, down a shallow slope. Their arrival caused a few of the Blackshirts in the clearing to call out and jog towards them. They greeted the cadets’ Blackshirt guards like brothers, hugging them and slapping each other on the back. There was a flurry of conversation. Babaka was explaining to the others what had happened on their journey. Max couldn’t understand his words, of course. But he knew what Babaka was saying when he pointed at Lukas and mimed taking two shots with obvious approval. Max’s anger and grief returned tenfold. Lukas, who was standing well apart from the others, remained stony-faced, staring into the middle distance. It was as if Babaka’s story had no effect on him. The new Blackshirts treated him with a certain respect. Then Babaka pointed at Sami and appeared to be explaining what had happened with the gorilla. Max found himself staring at the watch on his wrist. Babaka sneered at Max. He pointed at the watch then at himself, as if to say, It’s mine.

  Then the Blackshirt the gorilla had hit took up the story. His face was badly bruised. His mates eyed Sami as if he was a troublemaker. Max, standing next to him, felt the heat of their glare too. He knew they should expect rough treatment. And soon. The gang members were splitting up the hostages. Max, Sami and most of the others were dragged towards the pits on the edge of the clearing. Lukas was being ushered in a different direction: towards the heavily guarded plateau. Max wondered if he had noticed Roland’s disappearance. If he had, would he tell the Blackshirts? Or would he tell Oscar Juwani? Because that was surely where they were taking him.

  Lukas glanced back as he was led away. For the first time since he had shot Abby and Lili, Max saw a new expression in his face. He looked haunted, uncertain and scared.

  Max didn’t care how Lukas felt. They were no longer friends and Max had his own problems to deal with.

  11

  The Pit

  The red shirt they had given Lukas to wear over his other shirt stank of sweat – and of something else too. There were dark stains on the cuffs. Blood, he assumed. He didn’t want to know who had worn the shirt last, and he didn’t want to wear it now. He was not one of them. He had to try hard not to stumble as Babaka led him across the clearing. The trek through the jungle had exhausted him. His legs were weak and his mind numb with fatigue. Part of him was hungry, but he doubted he could eat anything. The foul reek that hung around this place was enough to make anybody lose their appetite. Worse than that, though, was the look Max and Sami had given him. His friends hated him.

  He understood. In their shoes, he’d feel the same.

  Everyone stared at him as he passed. Here, in the centre of the clearing, they were mostly Redshirts, like Lukas. Their eyes were dead. He remembered what Angel had said during their briefing. The things these kids are forced to do … you wouldn’t want to know about it.

  What had they done? he wondered. Who had they killed? Had they shot their best friends, like Lukas had? Whatever it was, he could tell that their actions haunted them. They had done things that made returning to their previous lives impossible. They were criminals. Killers. It meant they were locked in to Oscar Juwani’s cult for life.

  He heard a shriek. The boy with the blue shirt was still being beaten. Lukas turned away, unable to watch. He walked past a roaring fire, over which several monkeys were being roasted on a spit. The smell turned his stomach. He stared in the direction Babaka was leading him: towards the rough staircase leading up to the plateau.

  There were two guards at the bottom of the staircase: aged about fifteen, in black shirts and torn trousers and carrying AK-47s. They obviously recognised Babaka and stepped aside to let him pass, but when Lukas tried to follow they blocked his path. One of them forced him to raise his arms. The other patted him down, searching for concealed weapons. Lukas was unarmed, of course, so the guard found nothing. As he was patting down Lukas’s chest, however, his hand stopped at the hard circle of his Special Forces Cadets challenge coin, sewn into his first shirt. But it wasn’t weapon-shaped. Perhaps the guard thought it was just a button. He finished patting Lukas down without comment, then nodded at Babaka and let him pass.

  Lukas followed Babaka up the stairs onto the plateau. From here, he had an excellent view of the whole clearing. He picked out Max and Sami, who were being led to the pits at the far side. Lukas was on a level with the hanging bamboo prison and could see its occupants: four men in military camouflage gear. Their faces were almost black with dirt. They were gaunt and bruised. There was no room for them to lie down, so they sat, their heads lolling listlessly. The caged buzzed with insects, no doubt attracted by the waste and the smell. Lukas thought the men were alive, but he couldn’t be sure. He shuddered and turned away.

  Babaka beckoned to him. Out in the jungle he had been almost friendly, but now he had changed. Lukas thought he seemed nervous as he led his new Redshirt around the large hut on the plateau. Beyond it another fire burned, bigger than the ones in the clearing. There was something more appetising being roasted here. A deer, maybe? Lukas couldn’t be sure. He counted five more Blackshirt guards, all armed, two of whom flanked the entrance to the hut. Babaka approached and murmured something to one of the guards. The guard seemed uncertain as he glanced at Lukas, but he shrugged and knocked on the door of the hut. He opened it and disappeared inside. Lukas realised he was holding his breath. Then the guard reappeared and beckoned them in.

  Babaka went first. Lukas felt all the Blackshirts watching him. He tried not to show how nervous he felt. Drawing himself up to his full height, he entered the hut.

  There were candles burning inside, but it was still dim and it took a few seconds for Lukas’s eyes to adjust. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings. The hut was circular, and a lot more comfortable than the rough shacks down in the clearing. There were rugs on the floor and large cushions scattered around. For all the comfort, however, it smelled musty and unclean. Weapons racks adorned the walls, filled with assault rifles, handguns, ammunitions and even a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Against the far wall was a comfortable armchair. And sitting in the armchair was the most enormous man Lukas had ever seen. Rolls of fat surrounded his jowly face. His vast stomach overhung the armchair. His face was covered with scars and beads of sweat. One of his eyes was milky. He was smoking. Each time he inhaled, his face glowed red. He wore military camouflage gear. In another situation it would have been funny, because he was so ill-suited for physical activity. But nothing about him made Lukas want to laugh. Behind him, hanging on the wall, was a picture of the fat man in his youth, carrying a rifle in each hand. And the man himself oozed danger. His expression was cold. As Babaka spoke to him, he stared directly at Lukas. Then he raised one hand and made a ‘shoo’ gesture. Babaka turned to leave. Lukas made to follow him.

  ‘Not you,’ said the man. His voice was low and harsh. Lukas stopped. He was surprised that the man had spoken in English. Babaka left the hut. The man extinguished his cigarette in a brimming ashtray on a table next to him.

  ‘English?’ he said.

  ‘American,’ Lukas replied.

  ‘Excellent. I am glad to have the chance to practise your language. The last English-speakers to arrive here –’ he looked over one shoulder, as if he could see through the wall of the hut towards the cage hanging from the tree – ‘they did not want to chat. And I fear they will not live much longer. We will photograph their bodies when they are dead and show them to the world, so that people will understand what happens if they give Oscar Juwani trouble. What is your name?’

  ‘Lukas.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Lukas did, of course, but he couldn’t admit it. It would blow their cover story. ‘No,’ he said.

  The man smiled, as if he knew Lukas was lying. ‘My name is Oscar Juwani. And you belong to me. Everybody here belongs to me. Babaka tells me you shot your two friends.’

  Lukas stared straight ahead.

  ‘How did it feel, Lukas? How did it feel when you shot them dead? Did you enjoy it?’

  Lukas set his jaw. ‘A bit,’ he said.

  ‘It becomes better, the more you do it,’ Oscar Juwani said. ‘You learn to enjoy the way they beg for mercy, and the way they squeal. You will have the chance to do it again. I will find opportunities for you. Maybe you will do it enough to earn one of my black shirts. Would you like that?’

  Lukas hesitated. Then he nodded.

  Oscar Juwani seemed delighted by this. ‘Good.’ He chuckled. ‘Good. Babaka thinks I should kill you.’ The smile dropped from his face and he was suddenly deadly serious again. ‘He thinks I should kill you and your friends. He says there is something strange about you all. Something he doesn’t trust. Babaka has very good instincts, Lukas. He was going to kill you in the jungle, but you surprised him by shooting the two girls. He was not so sure of himself then, and he knew that if he killed good people I would be angry with him. Would you like to know what happens to people I am angry with?’

  Lukas’s stomach felt hollow. He nodded.

  ‘Good. Follow me.’

  Oscar Juwani stood up with great difficulty. He was sweating and wheezing by the time he was on his feet. Once he was standing, however, he was more agile. He left the hut. Lukas glanced at the weapons on the wall. Part of him wanted to grab one, but he knew that would be the wrong move. There were at least ten armed guards out there. If he presented any kind of a threat, he’d be dead in seconds. So he followed Oscar Juwani outside.

  It had grown dark. Darkness fell quickly in the jungle, Lukas had noticed. The fire had been stoked and was blazing fiercely. Oscar Juwani walked round it, flanked by two Blackshirts. Lukas could only see their flickering silhouettes. They had their backs to him and were staring down at something. Lukas moved round the fire and joined them. Oscar Juwani and his two guards stood in front of a sheet of wood, about two metres long and a metre wide. It was weathered but sturdy. Oscar Juwani was wheezing again. Lukas had the feeling that this was out of excitement. He said something to the two Blackshirts. They exchanged a nervous glance and received a sharp word from their boss. That was enough. They moved to either end of the sheet, bent down and shifted it to reveal a hole in the ground.

  The hole had been neatly dug: a precise rectangle with straight edges, like a grave. A truly terrible smell wafted out of it, so putrid it made Lukas want to be sick. And there was a sound too. A slithering, hissing, angry sound. Whatever was in that pit had been disturbed by the light, and didn’t like it.

  ‘Go ahead, Lukas,’ Oscar Juwani said. ‘See what’s inside.’

  Lukas stepped carefully towards the edge of the pit. It was deeper than an adult was tall. At first he couldn’t see what was at the bottom, so he squinted. The floor of the stinking pit was moving. He shuddered. He knew what was down there, even before his eyes sorted it all out.

  Snakes.

  How many? He couldn’t tell. Thirty? Forty? Perhaps even more. They were entwined, sinuously moving, all hissing at different frequencies to create a sinister cacophony that made Lukas’s hair stand on end. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t help staring into the pit. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the bones of a human hand sticking out, before being hidden by the snakes.

  ‘Black mambas,’ Oscar Juwani said. ‘One snake holds enough venom to kill forty men.’ He gave another curt instruction. The two Blackshirts covered the pit again. Lukas stayed where he was. He could sense Oscar Juwani approach him from behind. He could smell him – sweat and cigarettes – and feel his hot breath next to his ear. ‘Maybe,’ Oscar Juwani whispered, ‘you could be my head Blackshirt. One day. Maybe I will let you kill Babaka. But if I find out that you are not who you say you are, I will let one of the Blueshirts push you into the pit. It will be an excellent rite of passage for them, and you will make a fine meal for my little babies. Do you understand?’

  Lukas took a deep breath. He turned. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Totally.’

  Oscar Juwani clapped his hands. ‘Excellent! You must be hungry!’ He gave an order, and a couple of Blackshirts removed the roasting animal from its spit. ‘Tonight we eat,’ Oscar Juwani said. ‘Tomorrow we work. Come.’ He took Lukas by the arm and ushered him towards the animal. On the other side of the fire, however, Lukas couldn’t help noticing Babaka staring at him with a dark, aggressive expression. He obviously did not like the way Oscar Juwani was putting his arm around Lukas’s shoulder, inviting him to eat and treating him like his new favourite.

  12

  Caged

  The edge of the clearing, where the Blackshirts led Max and Sami, was foul. A pall of acrid smoke hung over the area. It came from a couple of pits where rubbish was being burned, and the smell stuck in the back of Max’s throat. There was an old metal container full of water with a cup chained to it. It was obviously for drinking, but insects floated on the surface and the water smelled sulphuric. Nobody went near it.

  Next to the container was the huge log pile Max had noticed earlier. Nobody was chopping logs any more, however, and the axes had gone. Two Redshirts had filled a basket with logs and were taking them back to one of the cooking fires in the clearing.

  There were about thirty Blueshirts here. They made a sorry sight. Most were younger than Max and Sami, but their hands and bare feet were weathered and leathery. Many of them had sores on their legs, and their skin was covered in insect bites. Their shoulders were slumped, their faces slack. They had the bodies of children, but the demeanour of elderly people. Each had a shovel, and they hacked listlessly into the hard ground. They were digging five pits. Max didn’t know what for.

  A Blackshirt gave Max and Sami a dirty, ill-fitting blue T-shirt each. Max and Sami pulled the garments over their existing clothes. Then the Blackshirt gave them a shovel and pointed to the smallest of the five pits. There were four young Blueshirts there, three boys and a girl. Their shovels hardly made any impression on the ground. When Max and Sami joined them, they barely seemed to notice the new arrivals. They just stared at the ground and went through the motions of digging. One of them, a boy of about eleven, was crying. It didn’t take long to see why. His hands were bleeding. The wooden handle of his shovel was stained, and blood dripped down his fingers. Max wondered how long he had been digging. Hours? Days? However long it was, he needed medical care.

  The Blackshirts were walking away. There was clearly no need to guard these children closely. They were too exhausted to run. In any case, where would they go? Into the jungle where their wounds would become infected and one dark night would see them off? No. They were stuck, just as surely as if they were chained. Max sidled up to the boy. He gave him a reassuring smile then gestured for the boy to show Max his hands. At first the boy didn’t want to, but Max gently insisted. The boy held out his palms. They were red-raw and glistening, with streaks of pus along one side of his right hand. Max knew that if the infection got worse – which it would, in this humidity – it could enter the boy’s bloodstream. If that happened, the boy could die within hours. He needed medical attention, but there was none available. Max would have to improvise.

  None of the Blackshirts was paying any attention to them. Max lifted the blue T-shirt he had just been given to reveal the khaki shirt he had been wearing since they parachuted in. It was torn in places from their trek through the jungle. That made it easy to rip. Carefully, he tore a couple of long strips from the shirt. He wished they were cleaner, but they would do as temporary bandages to stop any more dirt getting into the boy’s wounds. Max gave him an encouraging smile and wrapped the makeshift bandages round his wounded palms. The boy winced but bravely let Max finish. By the time he had finished the second hand, blood was already soaking through the first. The bandages were ragged and insufficient. Max shook his head. They might give the boy a few hours of protection, but if he didn’t get proper care soon, his wounds would kill him. He wondered how many Blueshirts had died this way. Many, he was sure of it. He found himself wondering what happened to their bodies. Then it dawned on him why they were digging holes in the ground. No wonder, he thought, that these young people would do anything to win themselves a red shirt. Their survival depended on it. It was that – or dig themselves into an early grave.

  The other Blueshirts seemed too scared to watch what was going on. Sami, however, was staring at Max with an oddly approving look. Max realised that he had lost hope when Lukas shot Abby and Lili. Their mission had seemed pointless. Doomed to failure. Sami, however, had not succumbed to that hopelessness. He had believed, despite everything, in the power of doing the right thing.