by Ann Walker
Love In The Jungle III
by
Ann Walker
Copyright © 2015 by Ann Walker
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Love In The Jungle III
All rights reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording and faxing, or by any information storage and retrieval system by anyone but the purchaser for their own personal use.
This book may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of Ann Walker, except in the case of a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages for the sake of a review written for inclusions in a magazine, newspaper, or journal—and these cases require written approval from Ann Walker prior to publication. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
If I had ever imagined myself going on a hike across a jungle mountain range—a beautiful landscape, rife with lush greenery and little critters—in Togo, I probably would have seen myself as a tourist. I'd be with a group of fellow tourists, and we'd either be led by a local or a designated guide from some company. We'd camp under the stars, eating quality meals and singing songs around a campfire.
Oh, and no one would have guns.
Well, maybe the tour guides. I mean, who knows what kind of dangerous creatures you can run into out here—and from what I've learned so far, the most dangerous are the kind that walks on two legs and likes to hit.
I stumbled forward, my balance totally off given the fact that my arms were roped together behind my back, and I would have face-planted had Grant not pushed his body in front of mine. So, rather than plummeting to the jungle floor, I crashed into him, causing both of us to stagger.
"Enough," one of our captors barked, yanking me back by my upper-arm so that we were separated again. "Keep moving."
"I didn't do it on purpose," I insisted, my voice barely above a whisper. He shot me an irritated look, and out of habit, I flinched back. Grant, meanwhile, watched the whole scene unfold with a clenched jaw, his eyes steely with a hatred I'd never seen in him before. Swallowing thickly, I waited until he met my eye, then did my best to implore him to behave. Our kidnappers weren't above using physical force to keep either of us in line, and Grant had more bruises and scrapes on him because of me than I cared to admit.
The man who'd pulled me back shoved Grant forward, ordering him to keep walking. There was a moment where it looked like Grant might lunge for him, but that passed quickly. Turning in place, Grant moved on stiffly, stepping over shrubs and around little trees that grew in the mountainous region. I eventually got my feet moving again too, one in front of the other, until we'd caught up with the rest of the group. The men had waited for us, the few leading our forced march sitting around until us stragglers caught up.
The scenery was stunning, especially during the day, but the plants trapped the humidity, and I was perpetually drenched, soaked in a steady stream of anxiety-caused cold sweat. It had been like that ever since we left our first holding facility two days ago. We'd been in that little jail room, the box where we'd been chained to the walls, for almost three days. The only time we'd been permitted to leave was to use the bathroom, which happened three times a day.
My shorts were looser: while they weren't starving us, they weren't feeding us much either. Just enough to stay alive. Enough to keep going. I was surprised I had any energy left for this trek, considering the lack of nutrients entering my system. Grant usually tried to make me eat half of his portion, but I wouldn't have it: his leg was still healing up, and it was he who needed all the energy he could get.
"Can we continue?" one of the men asked as we approached, his Irish accent grating on me. In any other circumstance, I might have found it attractive, but his deadened stare and his continuously unimpressed attitude with both Grant and myself—as if we were here to impress anyone—made me hate him on principle.
The man behind us nodded, and we carried out as a single unit, moving onward and outward like nothing had ever happened.
I wasn't sure where we were headed, but they'd abandoned the cars once we hit the mountains. The SUVs were left at the base of the jungle, buried within the trees to avoid detection. Grant and I had tried to make a run for it while our captors busied themselves with their supplies, but that only earned me a blow to the gut that left me winded for the better part of the following hour.
Grant had gotten it worse—they saw him as the mastermind behind any and all schemes we might hatch.
Time passed slowly. I had no clue how long we'd been on the move, but given the slow descent of the sun toward the west, I figured it had been a few hours at least. We were only just starting up again: the party had paused so everyone, us included, could grab something to drink. Grant and I were only offered a sip of water, while the others guzzled it back like they had plenty to spare.
It was then, as we started what we were told would be our final trek for the day before we made a camp somewhere, that the scout who'd gone ahead of us raced back onto the scene. I watched him speak heatedly with the Irishman, and before either Grant or I knew what was happening, we were dragged off the path we'd been forging and into the bush. A hand clamped down over my mouth, and I squealed as a burly body yanked me away from Grant.
Into the shrubs and bushes, we crouched low, my captor and I, and I held in a whimper as the cool metal of his gun pressed to my throat.
"Not a sound," he hissed, his English heavily tainted by an accent wholly unfamiliar to me. I'd yet to make out where everyone was from, but no one, not a single man, sounded like a Togolese native. "If you scream, we'll shoot him, then we'll shoot you."
I nodded, fully understanding the threat, yet unable to grasp why it was issued.
My questions weren't left unanswered for long, however. Voices echoed through the jungle, and I immediately detected French conversation. Squinting through the trees and bushes, I could have sworn I saw men in uniforms marching by. They had flashlights going in the heat of the late afternoon, shining them through the trees.
"They're looking for you," my captor muttered, his gun pressing harder against my skin. "We'll have to move faster."
In that moment, I almost felt victorious. We weren't going to be forgotten—people knew we hadn't run for freedom from volunteering. We'd been taken. The ransom demands had been made a few days earlier, and I hoped it was all over the news back home: public pressure might make our government act. But for now, I could do with local troops hunting us down.
I wished I was braver. I wished I'd screamed. They couldn't have been more than ten feet from me—maybe the newcomers could have killed our captors before our captors killed us.
But I wasn't brave. With all I'd learned about myself, with all the growth I'd made since coming to Togo months ago, I hadn't made myself tough enough for a situation like this. Who could possibly do that? Everyone talks tough in a hypothetical, but when there's a terrorist militant pressing a gun to your throat, you do what
he says.
You survive—and that was exactly what I planned to do. So, fuck bravery. I closed my eyes and waited, staying absolutely still, absolutely silent, until what I hoped was a rescue party had passed. Even then, we waited until my kidnapper was absolutely sure we were alone.
And then we were off again, our pace quickened, my feet barely keeping up, Grant at the head of the group, me at the back.
Tears streamed down my face.
Chapter Two
I awoke with a sharp inhale, followed by a slow, tired exhale. My body ached like I'd been asleep forever, like I'd curled up and stayed in a single position all night. Usually that would mean I'd had a fantastic sleep, too tired to move—but I knew that wasn't the case tonight.
No, I was in physical agony because I'd been sleeping on the hard ground since my pathetic dinner hours ago. We'd moved off the beaten path, trekking into the jungle terrain, bugs eating at Grant and me as our captors hacked a way through the undergrowth and brush. When we eventually settled, the sun had started to set, and at the time I couldn't be sure why they'd chosen this spot in particular.
And, obviously, I wasn't at liberty to ask.
With our hands bound behind our backs, Grant and I were set down at the base of a tree that was covered in ants, and only when I was close to hysterics were we permitted to move elsewhere. My tears had also earned us a blanket, though it was thin and scratchy and offered nothing to protect either of us from the very solid, unforgiving earth beneath us. Little rocks poked against my body, digging my skin with their sharp points.
Grant, although in similar discomfort, had offered me his body to rest on as we settled in for the night, stomachs half-full—if that—with bread, water, and slivers of shaved beef. Despite the run-in with the search party earlier in the afternoon, our captors seemed to find their good moods once they had a fire going. I could have sworn I caught the flash of a metallic flask being passed around the circle, guns resting across the men's laps as they chatted noisily.
Apparently we'd made camp far enough away from the road for them to talk without a care. Even now, after some time had passed while I slept, they seemed to think they were untouchable out here.
Sitting up on my elbow, I blinked in the darkness, the low light of the fire hurting my eyes, and then looked to Grant. Some ten feet from our kidnappers, he dozed in a way that was almost peaceful, his eyelids still, his face relaxed. If we had been anywhere else, with anyone else, I would have assumed he was in the midst of a worry-free slumber, ready to wake up refreshed and bright-eyed in the morning.
But I knew better. Like me, he'd wake up aching and hungry. He'd probably have to pee like I did, bladder full enough to hurt, and he wouldn't be refreshed—not even a little. Weariness would cling to his bones as it did to mine, and we'd both stagger to our feet whenever our captors deigned it time to move on. Where we were going and how much longer it would take to get there was beyond me at this point, but as I shifted every sore muscle in my body, cracking my neck in an effort to get rid of its kink, I could only hope tomorrow wouldn't be as grueling as today.
Maybe tomorrow was today already. Squinting, I stared up in an effort to see through the canopy, but it was too thick to show the starlight I'd come to expect when I looked into the night sky. I'd fallen in love with the Togolese night, with its cool breezes and twinkling lights, with the sounds of the animals and the warmth of a good fire. Night in the village brought stories and drums and songs and laughter—and in that moment, I would have given anything to be back there, leaning on Grant's shoulder, our arms looped around one another's, watching Gloria warble drunkenly through a tune.
Inhaling deeply, I eased myself up further, leaning against the smooth wood of the small tree at my back. My shoulders ached, but I barely gave it a second thought when I reached up and ran a hand through my hair. In fact, I continued to blink sleepily and stare at the bonfire surrounded by men, totally unaware that I was, in fact, free.
When it finally did hit me, fresh tears sprung to my eyes. They'd used rope to keep us tied, the chains forgotten at our first site days ago, and it seemed that my restraints must have come loose while I slept. Slowly, painfully so, I shifted back to confirm. Sure enough, the dirty rope lay on the thin blanket we'd been loaned, innocently waiting to be tied back around my wrists again.
My breath caught in my throat. Free. I was loose. I could slip off into the night now, and no one would even realize—and when they did, they'd have no idea that I was a totally capable person again, able to use my hands and arms to survive.
A boisterous bout of laughter sent me shooting back to the ground, laying there with my hands behind my back as if they were still tied. I wasn't sure who was watching us, but I wasn't about to give my newfound freedom away. Instead, I inched closer to Grant, then nuzzled his neck. To outsiders, it might have looked like an affectionate gesture and nothing more, but to me, it was the start of something lifesaving.
It had to be.
"Grant?" I whispered his name softly, gently, not wanting to scare him out of his sleep. He stirred somewhat, his eyes starting to move beneath their lids, and when I whispered his name again, he shot up with a sharp inhale.
"What?" he said, his voice laced with drowsiness. He rolled to face me, a panicked look in his eye, reflected in the light of the fire. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," I murmured, shuffling closer. "Pretend we've gone back to sleep."
He inhaled deeply, then cleared his throat. "What?"
He might have looked alert, but I could see that sleep still had its claws in him. Not that it mattered: he'd be wide awake soon enough.
"My ropes are loose," I told him quietly, and his eyes widened. "They must have come off while I was sleeping."
"Are you serious?" he demanded, dropping his voice, his eyebrows furrowing. "Can you move?"
"Yes, of course." I nodded, then gestured for him to turn over. "Let me try to get your ropes. We can make a run for it…"
"You should just go," he told me, and for a moment, I stared at him, stunned. He held my gaze, unflinching and deadly serious. "Run. I'll be okay. Don't waste your time—"
"Don't be stupid," I all but snapped, struggling to keep from smacking him. "I'm not going to leave you here with them. If we go, we go together."
"I'll slow you down," he argued, his eyes darting to his leg. "I won't be able to move as fast… You can go for help."
"They'll kill you." My voice cracked, the tears that had gathered earlier threatening to fall. "I won't leave you."
"Clara—"
"Stop being an idiot and roll over," I hissed, glaring. My voice softened as I added, "Trust me."
I loved him. I wasn't about to abandon him here, left alone in the hands of the psychopaths who'd threatened us constantly since they'd taken us. What would they do if they found him and not me? What if they thought he helped me escape? He might not be able to move much now with his leg still healing, but he'd be able to move even less if those freaks broke it.
Slowly, as if I was forcing him to do something against his will, Grant rolled over. He shot me one last look before doing so, obviously unimpressed with my choice. I didn't care. We were getting out of here together now, or we'd do it together another day: I wasn't going to leave him.
Nibbling my lower lip, I shifted so that I could see the bonfire. From what I could discern, our captors sprawled around the flames, flasks and food in hand, guns at their sides and across their knees. No one seemed to be looking at us, and if we kept quiet, it would probably stay that way.
Once I was completely sure we weren't being watched, I moved as close as I could to his back, then brought my arms around to work on the knots binding his wrists. I did my best, but let out a grunt when my nails bent and broke on the thick rope. Cursing under my breath, I tried it from different angles and pulled at different places—nothing would budge.
Grant drew in a sharp breath when my busted nails grazed his skin, and I too winced.
"Sorr
y," I muttered. "This is really tight."
Apparently whoever had tied us up thought Grant needed a little extra attention. There was no way my bindings could have come loose if they'd been tied like this.
"Just go, Clara," he begged, the pleading in his tone heartbreaking. I shook my head, even though I knew he couldn't see me. My hand found a spot on his back, his shirt damp, and I rubbed it. He was so tense, so tight, and I closed my eyes to once again hold back the tears. No one should have to go through this—not ever.
"Just breathe, Grant," I murmured. "We have all morning to get this loose."
It was a lie and we both knew it: our kidnappers could turn on us at any moment, possibly wanting to get a start on our hike before sunrise. My tugging became a little frantic, and I suddenly feared I was making everything worse—and tighter—through my actions. Teeth gritted, I adjusted my tactic, trying my hardest not to panic. Panicking would only make things worse—it would make me sloppy, unobservant, reckless.
Finally, as if he'd had enough of my fumbling, Grant pulled himself away and rolled over, his gaze fierce.
"Clara, run," he ordered, and I knew that if he could physically somehow get me moving, he probably would. "I'll figure something out on my own. You don't need to go through this—"
"Stop acting like some macho hero," I snapped, shifting up and trying to roll him over again by his shoulder. "It's not heroic to send me off into the jungle alone while you wait here to have the crap kicked out of you. We're both getting out of here."
"I'm not trying to be the hero," he told me fiercely. "I'm trying to save your life. If something happens to you, I can't… I don't…"
Grant trailed off, pressing his lips together, and then shook his head. I bit the insides of my cheeks as I watched the internal rage brew. All those feelings, all those emotions, locked up inside.
"I know the feeling," I said tightly. Did he think I felt any different? Did he assume that I didn't care what happened with him? I don't know how I could go on without knowing that he'd be okay, that he'd get out of this awful mess with me.
