by Vanessa Kier
The tro-tro started up again. Emily’s heart stuttered as the overhead light shut off, plunging the interior into darkness. But when the other passengers settled quietly back into sleep, she gradually relaxed. The tour company had guaranteed that no harm would come to her or the other women on the tour. In the weeks leading up to their arrival, the rebels had been busy fighting government forces next door in the Democratic Republic of the Ivory Coast. The government of the Republic of the Volta had backed up the tour company’s promise. They’d assured Emily and the other women that should the rebels approach the border, their armed forces were strong enough to fight off any attack. The government wanted the tour to go ahead, to show the rest of the world that the country was safe for tourists. Plus, both the tour company and the government had explained that the men guarding the women were highly skilled former soldiers. Emily trusted that Masaud would protect her.
Even with tonight’s hint of danger, she didn’t regret turning down her father’s offer to hire an additional, private bodyguard. She had to learn how to navigate the non-ballet world on her own. Danger and all.
Besides, she just wanted to blend into the world as much as her scars allowed. Having a private bodyguard would have set her apart from the others on the tour and prevented her from making the friendships that had already developed between her and the other women.
The homestays were the only point at which the women were on their own, allowing them to learn local dances and customs that they’d later incorporate into a dance program with the orphans. The tour company had offered strong assurances that all the villages were located in very calm, pro-foreigner regions of the country. Emily was supposed to have been picked up by the tour this morning, but instead Masaud had shown up on foot and explained that the group’s Land Cruiser had two flat tires and was holed up at a regional way station, the equivalent to an American rest stop. The way station didn’t have appropriate replacement tires, so their driver had borrowed a vehicle and headed to the regional capital. Masaud had taken the morning tro-tro and then walked to Emily’s village after being dropped off on the main road.
The tro-tro picked up speed, zigging and zagging as it avoided the worst of the potholes on this unpaved road. Emily had the distinct sensation that her life was similarly moving out of her control. Nerves coiled in her belly, different from what she used to experience before going on stage. Then, her success had depended on her own ability to perform the complicated choreography. Now, her safety rested on the skill of the tro-tro driver, the good will of her fellow passengers, and Masaud.
She stole one more glance at the stranger. She should feel sympathy for him, since he’d been walking all alone in the dark. Yet she couldn’t figure out where he’d come from. She knew from experience that navigating a dirt road in the pitch dark was hazardous. On the first night of her homestay, she’d decided to find a place to watch the thick blanket of stars without overhanging branches blocking her view. She hadn’t taken a lantern. After walking only a few yards, she’d stumbled on the uneven ground and nearly ended up facedown in a ditch.
So what had caused the stranger to walk for miles along this road in the dark? And why couldn’t she shake the sensation that something was wrong?
Biting her lip, Emily watched the night pass. Her nerves would probably settle once she reached the way station. Kofi, their tour guide, acted like a good-natured big brother to her and the other women in the group. He’d laugh off her concerns, make a joke, and she’d feel better. Tomorrow they’d head south, join up with the other three women, their tour guide and guard, then continue on to the orphanage where they’d begin dance rehearsals with a group of children and teens displaced by the rebels’ violence.
Yes, all would be well. She had no reason to be so uneasy.
Day Three
THE NEXT MORNING, after a few hours’ rest in one of the way station’s guest rooms, Max stood over the pit toilet out back and finished sawing at his ponytail with a sturdy knife he’d borrowed from the kitchen. Having long blond hair had aided his cover of being a hippie college professor gathering research for a book. Now that he had Dietrich’s men after him, he couldn’t afford to stand out as more than just another white adventurer too reckless to avoid this dangerous section of Africa. Although Volta and its neighbors to the east continued to insist that they were stable and safe for foreigners, people who’d been traveling the region, like Max, knew that the rebels had their sights set on taking over all of West Africa and had already begun laying the foundation for a full out assault.
The hair broke free. Max watched the bright strands sink into the watery sludge far below, then stuck his baseball cap over his shortened hair and headed back toward the main building. A quick glance toward the far corner of the lorry park—the dirt square where the tro-tros and buses dropped off passengers—showed that the American tour group’s Land Cruiser was still there, so he continued up the outside stairs to his room.
After escaping Ziegler’s cell through the smuggler’s tunnel, Max had retrieved his stuff from its hiding place and snuck across the border. He’d caught a few hours’ sleep before hitching a ride with a farmer early the next morning, but after the man left him at the northern crossroads, Max’s luck had run out. There’d been no other vehicles on the road and he’d been forced to walk south, aiming for his contact Sulaiman’s village. He’d been stumbling along in the dark, searching for a safe place to sleep, when the tro-tro had shocked the hell out of him by stopping when he’d waved it down. He’d figured there’d been a good chance the driver would consider a lone white man too dangerous to pick up given the region’s slide toward anti-foreigner violence. Too many people were already avoiding all contact with foreigners, afraid of being targeted as foreign sympathizers when the rebels moved in.
Yet the tro-tro had braked for Max and the driver had offered him a ride as long as he could pay.
He’d received another surprise when the mate told him they had an American lady on board. The wariness in the woman’s almond shaped brown eyes when she spotted him had hit like a punch to the gut. He’d quickly catalogued her delicate Asian features, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun, and the river of scars that started at the edge of her jaw and ran down her neck to disappear beneath her t-shirt, then dismissed her as non-threatening. An African man with the erect bearing and sharp-eyed gaze of a soldier had shared a few looks with the woman from his seat across the aisle. Probably her bodyguard. So the woman hadn’t been completely stupid and traveling alone.
Still, she had a right to be wary. Being around Max could be dangerous. But he’d been in too much pain to ignore the ride. Plus, he hadn’t seen any signs that he’d been followed.
When he’d learned that the tro-tro was dropping the American woman off at this way station to meet her tour group, Max had figured he’d be safer blending with a group of other foreigners than standing out because he was the only white person left on the tro-tro. So he’d had the driver leave him here, feeling confident he’d be able to convince the tour’s leader to give him a ride.
Yeah, so much for that. When he’d spoken to the man first thing this morning, the tour guide said he’d gladly give Max a ride. Unfortunately, their Land Cruiser had two flat tires and his driver had gone to the capital to find replacements. Now the clock was edging toward noon and the driver still hadn’t returned. Max couldn’t hang around any longer. He needed to get to Sulaiman’s village so he could rest and heal. Then he’d resume his search for details on Dietrich’s deal.
The bad news just kept coming, though. When Max had asked Madame Eunice, the woman who owned the way station, about renting a car she’d just shrugged sympathetically and told him that the tour group’s driver had taken the only available vehicle. So Max was once again going to have to hoof it.
He grabbed his backpack out of his room. After checking that no evidence of his stay remained, he headed downstairs.
As he was about to round the corner into the lorry park, he heard
the roar of an engine and an authoritative shout in the local language. He put his back against the building and peered around the corner in time to see a rebel Jeep turn off the main road.
He spotted a familiar white man in the passenger seat and froze.
Dammit to hell, how had Ziegler found him so quickly? Max could have taken any one of three directions at the crossroads. How had Ziegler managed to track him here? He quickly patted himself down. Did he have a tracking device on him? Had Ziegler deliberately left him alone in that room expecting him to escape? If so, why?
Not feeling any unexpected lumps, Max decided that when he caught some real down time, he’d have to check every inch of his skin and clothing to make sure he wasn’t bugged. For the moment, he’d have to assume he wasn’t being tracked. It was more likely that Ziegler had several teams out looking for him and it was just his bad luck that Ziegler had shown up here.
Time to disappear.
He turned smoothly away, keeping to the shadows until he reached the open space to the side of the main building. The Jeep screeched to a halt back in the lorry park. Max hesitated, checking behind him for any sign he’d been spotted. At the far end, where the alley opened into the lorry park, he could just barely make out Ziegler and his rebel cohort getting out of the Jeep and being accosted by Madame Eunice. The bodyguard from the tro-tro last night stood off to one side.
Max wanted to tell Madame Eunice that arguing with Ziegler was a bad idea, but the distraction allowed him to slip unnoticed across the exposed area between the building and the tall Guinea grass that formed the border between the way station and the jungle.
He’d just reached the concealment of the vegetation when the rebel shouted at the woman. A second later, the rat-tat-tat of an assault rifle shattered the morning’s peace. Max dared another glance back. From this position, he had a better angle of sight into the lorry park. He was relieved to see that the rebel had only shot into the air.
Then another Jeep full of rebels pulled in behind the first vehicle. Interesting. Ziegler was here without his standard group of mostly white, Germanic guards. Dietrich and Ziegler were usually all about rigid control and adherence to a rather old-fashioned code of honor. They normally wouldn’t trust their business to the unruly rebels. So what was Ziegler up to?
If it doesn’t involve the upcoming deal, it’s not my concern. Ignoring the pain in his ribs, Max slung his backpack onto his shoulders and headed at a fast walk through the man-height grass toward the additional protection of the tree line.
Then he paused, remembering the Asian American woman. He’d spotted her walking into the jungle over an hour ago.
Dammit, he didn’t have time to find her and warn her. And yet…
He knew what the rebels did to women.
Cursing under his breath, he turned and walked toward where he’d last seen her.
CHAPTER TWO
FROM HER PRONE position on the jungle floor, elbows propped in front of her on the tarp she’d borrowed from Madame Eunice, Emily held her breath, her finger hovering over the shutter-release button on her camera. The warthog baby snuffled in the dirt a few feet away, searching for grubs. Emily waited for it to raise its head. She ignored the press of the thick jungle air that turned her skin damp with perspiration. She ignored the buzz of the occasional fly around her ears and face, and shoved away thoughts of what insects or other critters might be crawling toward her. This little fellow was so ugly he was adorable. She wanted a series of photos of him before she went back to the States.
The warthog jerked its head up.
Emily took a series of rapid shots as the warthog stared fixedly into the jungle, then spun and bolted. A second later, a series of loud pops sounded from the direction of the way station. Emily startled and almost dropped her camera. Were those gunshots?
She froze, straining to hear more. But the jungle had fallen eerily silent.
O-kay. Maybe it had just been the locals out hunting.
Or maybe the rebels had invaded.
She shivered. Suddenly she understood why Masaud had told her not to venture too far into the jungle. She slapped the cover onto the camera’s lens, then pushed to her feet. A bird called out in annoyance, then the rest of the jungle sounds—birds, insects, and the occasional grunt from an animal—returned. Telling herself that this was a good sign, she decided that she’d better return to the way station. At the very least, she needed to check if there was any word from the driver. Or maybe Kofi and the other women had returned from their walking tour of the nearby palm oil plantation.
Emily massaged the tight muscles in her neck and shoulder, gathered up her things, and set off. A few minutes later, she’d almost reached the way station when she heard angry voices ahead. She slowed, reluctant to step out of the relative safety of the thick vegetation into the middle of a violent disagreement. Instead, she inched forward until the broad leaves of a banana tree partially hid her, then peeked out.
An African man in an army green uniform with a yellow and black insignia sewn above the pocket and on the shirt sleeves was arguing with Madam Eunice. Masaud stood in the shadows off to one side.
“No!” The soldier punctuated his furious shout by firing his rifle into the air. Emily flinched.
At the far corner of the lorry park, two figures stepped out from an alley between the buildings. They saw the altercation and halted.
Oh, God, Crystal and Sue. The other women in her group. Kofi moved into view, placing himself between the women and the soldier. Gun in hand, Masaud jerked his head back toward the alley, indicating for the women to get out of sight as he too, positioned himself in front of them.
Crystal turned to flee, pushing Sue, who was shorter, in front of her. But in her panic, Crystal moved out from behind the protection of Masaud and Kofi. As she spun to leave, the fan of her long blonde hair caught the sun. With a speed Emily hadn’t believed possible, the white man standing with the soldier pulled out a pistol and fired at Crystal.
Emily screamed. The scene in front of her slowed down, like a movie reel that had been switched to frame by frame view.
Red bloomed on Crystal’s upper back. She stumbled into Sue. For a moment it seemed the women would regain their balance and reach the safety of the alley. But then the white man fired again and she fell. Sue half-turned to see what had happened to Crystal. The soldier open fired. Masaud fell first. Then Kofi. Then Sue.
Emily opened her to mouth to scream again, only to have the sound muffled by a large hand covering her mouth. An arm circled her waist, yanking her against a hard body.
She struggled, even as she was unable to take her eyes off the sight before her. Her friends lay on the ground, their bodies crumpled in unnatural poses. The white man raced over to the fallen women. He yanked on Crystal’s hair, turning her face toward him. Lips curling in fury, he looked up and snarled something at the soldier.
The soldier turned to Madam Eunice and gestured angrily. The woman shook her head. The white man stood up and loomed over the woman. After a brief exchange, she pointed toward the guest rooms. The white man nodded to one of the soldiers and headed toward the building.
“I hope you didn’t leave behind anything you care about,” the man holding Emily said in American English.
“N-no. I brought my b-backpack with me.”
“Good. Did anyone see you head out this way? If not, that might buy us some time.”
“Yes,” she whispered. Her heart pounded and her vision swam as panic flooded her. “M-my guard. B-but h-he’s…h-he’s d-dead.” She choked back a sob. “A-and the woman—”
Her stomach plummeted as another soldier entered the lorry park, dragging Madam Attipoe, the woman who ran the restaurant. She’d provided Emily the information on the best places to take photos. One of the soldiers asked Madam Attipoe some questions. After a lot of frightened head shaking, she motioned toward the place where Emily had initially entered the jungle. Another soldier raised his rifle and started firing at the spot, m
oving left as he shot.
“Down!” the American behind her said.
Not waiting for her response, he pulled her off her feet seconds before bullets shredded the tree above her. His body covered her once they hit the ground, shielding her from the bits of leaf and bark that rained down.
“Death to foreigners!” one of the men shouted.
She heard a squeal of tires from the road leading to the lorry park. Oh, God. More soldiers?
A man barked out an order in the local language. Another man answered, his tone pleading. The reply was two shots. A woman screamed. Then there were several more shots.
The man who’d pulled her down cursed softly. He rolled away and Emily got her first look at him. It was the American from the tro-tro.
He tugged on her hand. “Let’s go.”
She glanced toward the way station, but couldn’t see anything through the dense grass.
An ululating cry of triumph rolled through the air. More gunfire sounded, although this time it seemed celebratory.
The American grabbed her wrist, pulled her to her feet and dragged her toward the trees. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“But—”
Women wailed. Men protested in the local language and were met with angry words.
Emily glanced behind her and saw two rows of soldiers moving toward them. Panic froze her limbs. She couldn’t take a full breath.
“No buts,” the American barked out. “Those are AFA rebels, lady. Haven’t you heard? They’re purging West Africa of all foreigners.” He tightened his grip on her wrist and hauled her forward. “Run!”
She stumbled after him.
Don’t panic. Focus. Stay alive. Repeating the mantra in her head, Emily followed the man through the jungle until she thought her lungs were going to burst. Fear gave her legs strength. Eventually she pushed past the pain in her body and lungs and entered that sweet spot where her body moved in a sort of autonomous harmony.
