Onyango rode like a shadow across the lowlands, the dawn a smear of gray behind him. By the time he reached the hidden base on the Kongo–Buganda border, he looked two days older — cloak streaked with mud, breath coming in hard pulls, eyes rimmed with fatigue. He dismounted without ceremony; there was no time for greetings. The small team waiting by the sapling watchtower straightened at his approach, relief and urgency mingling on their faces.
"News?" Korir asked, stepping forward. He had been given the task of passing messages to the church catacombs — the heart of their small, dangerous network.
Onyango unrolled a damp note and let the words fall between them. "Prince Khisa is in Mengo. He's training Buganda's levies. They are to act as bait. Our orders are simple — find the puppet master and remove him."
Korir's jaw worked. "Simple," he echoed, but there was no mirth in it.
