sting is incredibly painful, but the ants seldom use it; their jaws are strong enough to tear through the flesh of their prey. Indigenous people use them to close cuts that would require stitches in the developed world. Here, in the African bush, they would force the ant to bite on either side of a wound, breaking off the body and leaving the powerful mandibles in place to create a makeshift suture that could close the cut for days at a time.
The three thieves were forced to watch their loved ones thrash helplessly about on the floor of the pit, the ravenous safari ants quickly covering their bodies. With no way to swat them off and anchored to the pit with what amounted to a ball and shackle, they endured the torture of being eaten alive. The old man’s heart gave out well before the ants found their way into his brain through his eye sockets. The woman was lucky; she was all but brain dead from her clubbing before she hit the bottom of the pit. The boy, though, the boy’s screams would haunt the crowd for the remainder of their lives, his high-pitched cries lasting over twenty minutes as he was slowly eaten by the insatiable insects. When his screams turned to a whimper and finally ended, the three thieves were shacked to iron balls that were then thrown into the pit, where they endured the same slow deaths as their relatives. Within minutes the three workers were covered with ants. Vain attempts to pull the shackles off amid primal screams and groans filled the evening air. Death took twenty minutes. Within an hour, bones were all that remained.
“That should keep them in line for another month,” Petrovich stated.
“Do you have any other questions?” Dobrynin asked his guest.
Aleksandr shook his head.
Yes, the diamond mines would be perfect. Of those scheduled for execution for smuggling the precious stones, Petrovich could keep one every now and then to feed to the ants as a warning. Those of sound mind and body would be airlifted to Aleksandr in Kamchatka, and then on to Medny Island.
There they would at least have a sporting chance.
CHAPTER 6
Old Town Alexandria, Virginia
KATIE BURANEK LEANED AGAINST the wall of her Old Town condo lost in thought, watching the raindrops hit the window and slide down to pool on the ledge. She cradled a glass of white wine in one hand while rubbing the cross around her neck with the other. She should have been contemplating her next move at the network. Did she want her own show or was she content to investigate the stories that interested her; ones she believed were of importance to the American people? Instead she was thinking of Reece, recovering in Montana and coming to terms with a future he thought didn’t exist. Was she a part of that equation? Would he forever be haunted by visions of his wife and daughter, taken from him by a consortium of politicians, military officers, and private sector financiers? Or was Reece learning to live with their memory, his life a positive testament to their legacy?
Katie’s eyes focused on a drop of rain as it hit the glass and trickled down the pane, weaving its way among its relatives, all born of the same gray clouds.
Thinking back to Reece’s surgery, she felt a tinge of guilt for what she’d done afterwards, but before she could surrender to her feelings, she had needed to know the truth.
* * *
“Can I see him now?” Katie asked the doctor.
It had not been lost on the reporter that establishing a relationship with Reece’s female surgeon might allow her access not normally granted to non–family members. She had made sure the doctor had seen her with Reece on each of his visits for updated MRIs, CT Scans, X-rays, and pre-op procedures. Looking the part of the devoted girlfriend was intentional. She needed answers.
“He’s just coming back out from under anesthesia. He’ll be a bit groggy, but I know he can have visitors now.”
It didn’t hurt that Dr. Rosen was a big fan of Katie’s book. The surgeon had seen enough soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines come through Bethesda over the years to feel a kinship with them and know how they felt about Benghazi. Katie Buranek’s debut nonfiction account, aptly titled The Benghazi Betrayal, pulled back the curtain on what had happened in the lead-up to the thirteen hours when a small group of CIA contractors fought for their lives