by Pamela Clare
In the backseat, he’d found a small, state-of-the-art infrared mini-drone, still in its box. It had probably cost the company tens of thousands of dollars. It would give him eyes in the sky, help him to see through the canopy of Nigeria’s forests to know what lay in his path.
The drone was now packed into the biggest suitcase Malik owned and padded with bubble wrap. He’d also brought ten grand in cash in his carry-on and a second bag with his own gear—boots, clothes, a K-Bar knife and ankle rig, body armor, helmet, night vision goggles, a trauma kit, and enough MREs to feed two people for a week. He just hoped Nigerian Customs didn’t search his bags.
All that money and military gear would lead to awkward questions like, “What the fuck are you planning to do while you’re here?”
The flight attendants went through their pre-landing routine, Malik watching out the window as the glittering lights of Abuja, Nigeria’s capital, came into view. Built in the 1980s to replace Lagos as the capital, it was a beautiful, modern city surrounded by a rural landscape. Kristi was out there somewhere in the darkness far to the north.
And Malik would find her.
Kristi changed the gauze in Jidda’s wound again, hooked up the last bag of IV antibiotics, and gave him another dose of oral pain meds. Around them, several men were bedding down for the night, including Peter.
Jidda swallowed the pills with a gulp of water. “I feel better.”
The antibiotics had kicked in, and the infection was beginning to clear.
Kristi checked his forehead for fever. “I think you’ll heal.”
He caught her hand. “You are very kind.”
“I’m a nurse.” She pulled her hand away. “Taking care of people is my job.”
She wouldn’t explain that she’d cared for everyone from inmates convicted of murder to mentally ill patients off their meds to violent addicts strung-out on meth. A nurse never got to choose her patients, but all deserved the same standard of care whether they were Charles Manson or Mother Teresa.
“Do you have a husband?”
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, so she lied. “Yes. His name is Malik. He fights with the US Army Rangers. He is probably very angry that I was abducted and eager to find me. He will be very happy when you release me.”
The hard look in Jidda’s eyes made her stomach sink.
She fought back a wave of despair. “You will keep your word, won’t you? Or are you a man who makes promises he doesn’t keep?”
The chatter of the men around them fell silent.
Jidda’s gaze went cold. “Watch what you say to me, woman. I am the only one keeping these men away from you. They are lions. You are prey.”
Kristi bit back the words she truly wanted to say, his implied threat clear. If she angered him, he would withdraw his protection. And then…
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Once he felt better and the wound had truly begun to heal, he wouldn’t need her any longer.
If he doesn’t let you go, the Nigerian or US government will do something. They won’t just forget about you. They’ll come for you.
And in the meantime?
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
Aware that the men were watching her, she did her best to hide her sudden rush of fear, drawing slow, steady breaths as she packed away the medications. Then she unrolled her bed mat, checked it for spiders, scorpions, and other creepy-crawlies. She laid it out near Jidda’s feet, putting herself in the corner, out of reach of his hands and far from the other men. Then, exhausted, she lay down on her side, careful not to poke herself with the scalpel, which was still in her pocket.
God, please get me out of this. Please help Jidda keep his word.
Kristi wasn’t a religious person, but she’d take any help she could get.
She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, a hand was sliding up her thigh. Her eyes flew open, and she sat upright, smacking the hand away and coming face to face with Peter. She kicked at him, her words coming in an angry hiss. “Get your hands off me!”
He grabbed her wrists, tried to force her back, hatred and lust on his face.
This time she shouted. “Let go of me!”
“Peter!” Jidda sat up. “Let her be.”
Peter glared at Jidda, then leaned close to Kristi. “He will not let you go, whore!”
“I’m not a whore!” she shouted back. “I’m a married woman and a nurse.”
“Quiet!” That was Jidda again. “Peter! Sleep now.”
Peter made his way back to his own bed, his gaze on Kristi as he stretched out on his mat, his rage at her palpable.
Kristi let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Jidda had stopped Peter this time, but what would happen when Jidda felt better and no longer needed her?
She lay down once again, back to the wall, her body starting to shake in the aftermath of what had just happened, her heart still thrumming in her chest.
She drew deep slow breaths, pretended to sleep.
Then she heard Malik’s voice as if he were beside her.
It’s incredibly freeing to embrace your mortality. You surrender hope and gain clarity and peace. You learn to live and act in the moment.
Is that what she needed to do? Accept that they were going to rape and kill her? Surrender hope of a rescue?
The thought almost made her throw up.
She wasn’t Malik. She wasn’t a soldier. She was a nurse.
All she wanted was to go home.
In the darkness, scalpel still in her pocket, she counted the minutes till dawn.
Malik climbed into the passenger seat of David’s black Mercedes-Benz G-Class. “Nice wheels, man.”
“What can I say? I like luxury.” David’s accent was rich and melodious.
Malik pointed to David’s time piece. “Is that a Rollie, man?”
“Rolex. Gucci. Prada. Mercedes. You hungry? Let’s get something to eat.”
Malik watched out the window as David drove them down to where the food trucks congregated at night. They both ordered chicken shawarma and beers and sat at a metal table near the curb to eat, people walking past, some wearing brightly colored traditional Nigerian clothes, some dressed as if this were LA or New York City.
David pulled something out of his jacket and slid it across the table to Malik.
The breath left Malik’s lungs.
Kristi.
It was a newspaper clipping about her abduction, complete with a photo.
He hadn’t seen her face since the day he’d left Amundsen-Scott Station. His gaze moved over the image—her beautiful eyes, those high cheekbones, her sweet lips. The knot of tension in his chest grew tighter.
“That answers my question.” David took a bite, chewed, then took a drink. “I wondered why you came alone and why Cobra isn’t behind this operation. You care about this woman.”
He cared for her more than she knew. “Yes.”
God, he’d been an idiot. He should have stayed in touch with her. He should have pushed her to change her contract.
“We will talk more later. Eat, man!”
“Right.” The food, which had smelled good, seemed tasteless to Malik now. But he needed fuel, so he ate, washing it all down with cold beer.
David kept up a cheerful monologue, giving him all the latest soccer news—which Nigerian footballers had left to play in the UK and Germany, details of the most recent match between the Nigerian Super Eagles and Algeria, why he thought they might win the World Cup this year.
Then he laughed. “But why am I telling you all this? You are tired from your journey. Let’s get home. Did you sleep on the plane?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t like traveling on Cobra’s private jet.”
David laughed. “Luxury, my friend. It is everything.”
Back in the vehicle, David grew serious. “How do you know this woman?”
“She and I are … were … lovers.”
&
nbsp; “Did it end badly?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. I had my work, and she had hers. We just couldn’t be in the same place.”
David glanced over at him. “You’ve never stopped thinking about her.”
“Yeah.” It was the truth.
“My government sources believe she was taken by one of the bandit gangs that hide in the forests in Kaduna State. They sometimes attack motorists on the Abuja-Kaduna Expressway, rob them, and kidnap them for ransom.”
“I read about the bandit gangs in Shields’ briefing.”
“What you don’t know is that there was an attack on the Expressway the day before Kristi was taken. The fools attacked a family. They did not see the police on the highway. The police opened fire, killed two of them, and shot another.”
Malik put the pieces together. “They took medical supplies when they abducted her. You think they abducted her to take care of the bastard who got shot.”
“It is a possibility.”
If that was the case, they would keep her alive—at least until they’d gotten what they wanted from her. After that…
“Tell me the truth, Malik. Is your government involved in this operation?”
“No. I’m on my own.”
David frowned. “And Cobra?”
Malik wouldn’t share details, even with David. “The rest of the crew is working another op.”
“Then it is lucky you have me. This is not going to be easy, my friend.”
Malik had to ask. “Why did you agree to help?”
Cobra wasn’t paying him. Neither was the CIA.
“You and the Agency are my best customers. If I help you now, who’s to say what might be in it for me down the line? Besides, I like you, Malik. So does Tower. He doesn’t want you to get your head shot off.”
That made Malik smile. “Yeah, neither do I.”
David drove through the city to what was clearly an upscale neighborhood. Ultramodern homes lined curving roads, all glass and light and landscaped gardens.
Malik gave a low whistle. “How much do we pay you?”
“You pay me very well.” David pulled up to a gate, which slowly opened onto a short driveway to a three-story house of white concrete, steel, and glass. “This was just built last year. I don’t stay here often—only when I’m in Abuja. I have a much nicer penthouse in Lagos. When we find Kristi, you must be my guest there.”
God, Malik hoped that’s how this would end. “Sounds good to me.”
They climbed out of the vehicle and were met by two burly, armed men. David introduced them as Bruno and Idris, his bodyguards. He spoke to them in Yoruba, then turned to Malik. “They will bring your bags. Come inside.”
Malik stepped through a heavy glass door and glanced around. Gray marble floors. Recessed lighting. A lighted swimming pool and hot tub in the back. Burnished stainless steel appliances in the kitchen.
Our taxpayer dollars at work.
“There is a gym and theater downstairs. There are four bedrooms upstairs. All have their own baths and toilets.”
Malik met David’s gaze. “Luxury, huh?”
David laughed. “Luxury.”
4
Kristi awoke from a dead sleep thanks to a sharp kick in the ribs.
Peter glared down at her. “Get up. Jidda needs you.”
She sat up, looked toward the open door, saw that it was after dawn.
Jidda sat up on his bed mat, a grimace on his face. “It is getting worse again. You have done nothing to help me!”
He’d gotten the last of the IV antibiotics early this morning, so it was time to switch to oral meds. If the infection was getting worse, he would need to go to a hospital—and she might wind up dead.
Pulse tripping, she stood, pushed past Peter, and knelt beside Jidda. She checked his dressing, saw that the redness and inflammation were substantially reduced, though the wound was still draining. “This drainage is normal. The infection is—”
“But it hurts!”
The pain meds had worn off while he’d slept.
“Of course, it hurts. Getting shot hurts. Your pain meds have worn off.” She checked him for fever. “Do you want my medical advice?”
He waited, listening.
“Stop being a bandit. You’re less likely to get shot.” She ignored his shocked response. “You don’t have a fever. Let’s get you your next dose of pain meds and start your oral antibiotics.”
“Why do you talk to me like that?”
“I speak honestly. Would you rather have me lie?” Kristi took two oxycodone tablets and an antibiotic capsule out of the duffel bag and gave them to Jidda, who swallowed them with the remaining water in his cup.
He set the cup aside. “Listen well. I hold your life in my hands, woman.”
She glared at him. “I held your life in my hands, man, and I saved it.”
For a moment, Kristi thought she’d gone too far, the anger on Jidda’s face making her heart thrum.
Then his head fell back, and he laughed. “You are a lioness—and too fine.”
Then Jidda called to his men, and a teenage boy appeared in the doorway. Jidda spoke with him and then looked over at Kristi. “This is my nephew, Obi. He will bring us breakfast and more boiled water for you to drink.”
“Thank you.” She gestured to Jidda’s arm. “I need to remove your IV.”
She carefully pulled off the medical tape and then drew out the catheter, pressing down with clean gauze to stop any bleeding. “Why did you become a bandit, Jidda?”
“My parents died of AIDS when I was a boy. I needed to eat.”
“I’m sorry about your parents.” AIDS still killed tens of thousands of Nigerians every year. “You know what it means to suffer, so why make others suffer? Those guards at the medical clinic had families, too. When your men shot them, I’m sure it was very painful. Now, their children have lost a father. Their sons and daughters are crying today. Do you ever think about that?”
He smacked her hand away. “Does the crocodile worry about its prey?”
“You’re not a crocodile. You’re not an animal. You’re a human—”
From outside came a cry, followed by whimpers of pain.
A shout. Men running.
Jidda called out, and a man answered, leaning in through the open doorway and speaking words Kristi didn’t understand.
A moment later, men entered supporting Obi, whose face was screwed up in pain.
Kristi saw that his hand was red and covered with blisters. “What happened?”
“My fool of a nephew fell into the fire. Can you help him?”
Obi whimpered in pain. “I didn’t fall. Someone pushed me.”
“Are you going to keep your word to let me go?” Kristi didn’t wait for Jidda’s answer. She grabbed the trauma kit and lidocaine ointment out of the duffel bag and motioned for Obi to sit down. “I’m going to clean the burn first and then treat it.”
Obi nodded.
“You understand English?”
“Yes.”
“This will hurt.” She poured sterile saline over Obi’s blistered palm and fingers then took one of the surgical scrub brushes and used the soft foam side to wash the skin before rinsing it again. The burns didn’t go below the dermis, which was lucky. “You’re going to be okay, Obi.”
After patting Obi’s hand dry with a piece of sterile gauze, she spread lidocaine ointment over his burns. “This will stop the pain for a while. It takes time to start working. You’ll need to re-apply it every hour.”
The relief on Obi’s face told Kristi the medication was already taking effect.
“You need to keep this clean, okay?” She carefully bandaged his hand. “Who pushed you?”
How could anyone mistreat this child?
Now that the crisis was over, the men began to tease Obi. Kristi couldn’t understand what they said, but she recognized their body language and the embarrassment and humiliation on Obi’s face.
He turned to her, looked a
t her through eyes that held far too much grief and fear for a boy his age. “You do well.”
That was Naija—Nigerian pidgin—for thank you.
She answered no trouble, Naija for you’re welcome. “No wahala.”
That made him smile.
Peter slapped Obi on the back of the head. “Do not thank a captive.”
Admonished, Obi stood, glancing at Kristi as he followed the men out of the hut.
She found Jidda watching her.
“I think you are too valuable for me to let you go.”
Malik woke and showered, washing away the grime of travel. He skipped shaving, impatient to get to work. Kristi was out there somewhere, in the hands of killers.
He’d dreamed about her again. In the dream, he’d kissed her, undressed her, and she had vanished from his arms, disappearing like a ghost. He’d run through Amundsen-Scott Station in a panic, searching for her, calling her name. But he hadn’t found her.
To hell with these bullshit nightmares. It was time to gear up and go after her.
He dressed in tactical pants and a black T-shirt, then made his way downstairs, the scent of food making his mouth water. He found an older woman at work in the kitchen, a white apron over a bright blue dress, a blue and gold head wrap covering her hair.
When she saw him, she curtsied. “Mr. Jones, please sit. Mr. Olatunji will join you for breakfast shortly. Would you like coffee, tea, or cocoa?”
Malik wasn’t used to having staff wait on him and would have been fine making his own breakfast, but he didn’t say that. “Coffee, please. Thank you.”
The rear sliding glass door opened, and David stepped inside wearing swim trunks and drying his hair with a towel. “Good morning! Did you sleep well?”
Malik wanted to get to work, but he forced a smile onto his face. “Yes. Thank you. My room is very comfortable.”
David grinned. “Good. We have much to discuss, but I should dress first.”
By the time David returned, breakfast was on the table—fried yams scrambled with eggs and tomatoes, fried plantains, beans, and bread. The food tasted as good as it smelled, but every bite reminded Malik that Kristi might well be going hungry.
