by Pamela Clare
He thanked his host for the meal, but David saw through him.
“You worry about her.” He drew out his smartphone, tapped in his password, and slid it across the table to Malik. “There is some good news. One of the aid workers got good photographs of the abduction, including the faces of some of the kidnappers. Here is the vehicle that took her away.”
Malik looked through the images, his body tensing at the photo of some bastard with his hand fisted in Kristi’s hair. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see the faces of three of the assailants. The vehicle—an older Toyota Highlander—had no license plate. It did, however, have some features they could use to identify it, including dents and a triangle of three bullet holes near the left taillight.
“The NPF—the Nigeria Police Force—is running their faces through their database. In the meantime, you will be searching for that vehicle.”
Malik slid the phone back over to David. “We should get these photos to Shields, too. She has a way of noticing things that everyone else misses.”
David drank his juice. “Let’s go upstairs to my office.”
His office was on the top floor. Ceremonial Yoruba masks adorned the walls, a putting green with artificial turf on the balcony outside.
David walked to his desk, picked up several documents, handed them to Malik. “These are your firearms permits and a letter from the government giving you permission to operate in the country. They are forgeries, of course, but they are flawless. If you are pulled over by police and someone calls in to verify them, you will be exposed. There was no way to get authentic permits so quickly.”
Malik looked them over. “I understand. Thanks.”
“Now for the fun part.” David walked over to what looked like a cupboard, pressed his thumb against a biometric scanner, and opened the doors to reveal an arsenal.
Malik crossed the room, took in the sight. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Take whatever you need. After all, I got most of them from Cobra.”
There were rifles, handguns, shotguns, submachine guns, machine guns, bayonets, and combat knives, most of them current US military issue. There were cases of M18 smoke grenades and fragmentation grenades, as well.
“Sweet.” Malik would need a good combat rifle with a bayonet, a sniper rifle with a night vision scope, a couple of pistols, lots of spare magazines, and a shit ton of ammo. He chose an M4 carbine, a scoped MK11 Mod 0 sniper rifle, and two SIG P320s.
While David sent the images of the attackers to Shields, Malik sat down at David’s desk to study a map of the area around Kinu Village. His stomach sank. “Shit.”
The area was a vast, rural landscape that was a mix of forest and savanna cleaved by rivers. Kristi could be anywhere out there.
For the first time, Malik’s hope waivered.
“It isn’t going to be easy, my friend.” David finished uploading the images and joined Malik. “You are searching for one precious needle in a hundred haystacks. But I know this country. If they are encamped in the forest, they are going to need one thing above all else—water.”
“Rivers.” Malik’s gaze snapped to the map. “We’ll search stretches of forest along the rivers.”
“You search along the rivers. I’m not getting paid, so I won’t risk my neck. I’ll take you to Kaduna to rent a car, and then you’re on your own.”
It was about damned time.
Malik folded the map, stood. “When do we leave?”
Kristi watched as Jidda walked through the encampment, supported by Peter and Obi. She had persuaded him to go for a small walk, afraid that lying on his mat for days would lead to blood clots. He grimaced with each step but kept going.
What he’d said this morning about her being too valuable to let go had stayed with her all day, fear gnawing at her until she felt almost sick. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t stay with Jidda. She sure as hell couldn’t sleep with him.
She glanced up at the sky—or what she could see of it through the canopy. The air was alive with the songs of birds. Sunlight gleamed on the muddy water of the river maybe a hundred yards away. And yet she felt as cold as ice.
How long had she been here? Three days? Four? Now she understood why prisoners scratched marks into walls to keep track of time. It was easy to grow confused when you were surviving moment to moment.
She did her best to remember.
Three days.
It felt like an eternity.
God, how she wanted a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a chance to brush her teeth. A real meal would be nice, too. Or a cup of tea. Or a real bed, one that was raised off the ground and not in the dirt with rodent droppings.
You wanted to travel and see the world.
Being held hostage in rural Nigeria by killers wasn’t what she’d had in mind.
If she made it out of this alive…
Malik had warned her. Sweet Malik. Malik who’d made her laugh and scream. He would hear about this eventually. Samantha would find out sooner or later, and then Thor would tell Malik. Would he worry about her?
She should have kept in touch. She should have emailed him just to say hello and ask how he was doing. Surely, that wouldn’t have been out of line. Now, she might never get the chance to talk with him again.
The thought made her throat go tight.
Stop!
She couldn’t let them see her cry. They were predators. Any sign of weakness or vulnerability would make Peter bolder. The bastard would have raped her last night if Jidda hadn’t told him to stop. And though she had the scalpel, she knew she could only use it once. The moment she turned it against one of them, they would kill her.
She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, wondered if she could talk Jidda into letting her boil water for a sponge bath. She had no intention of undressing in this camp, but since her arrival in Nigeria, she had gotten good at taking a bath out of a bucket.
Jidda was making his way back toward the hut now, wincing with each step.
She’d just started toward him when a small group of Jidda’s men appeared, laughing and dragging something between them. Whatever it was, it struggled and cried out, sounding so much like a baby that chills skittered down her spine.
A little duiker.
Two men held it by its horns, dragging it, kicking and wailing, into the center of the camp. Another hurried toward them with a machete.
Kristi turned away, the little creature’s distress tugging at her, its desire to live matching her own. Then its cries ended suddenly.
She fought back her disgust, pity for the animal putting another lump in her throat. She reminded herself that she wasn’t in a position to judge these men. She’d never had to kill to eat or worry about starving to death. Her meat came neatly packaged from a grocery store. She couldn’t begrudge them a meal—even if they were robbing, murdering assholes.
Still, there was no way in hell she would eat it. Undercooked or contaminated bushmeat was associated with a host of zoonoses—diseases that passed from animals to humans—including Ebola. She would stick with rice.
Not eager to return to the darkness of the hut, she found a tree stump, checked it for scorpions and spiders, and sat. She watched as the men built up the fire, singed the fur off the poor duiker, then cut it into sections to roast.
Obi ran over to her, an excited smile on his face. “You wan chop?”
Do you want to eat?
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Peter yelled for Obi, and the boy turned and ran back to Jidda, who limped toward the hut once more with their support.
Knowing Peter would yell for her next, Kristi followed, dread settling in her chest at the thought of the night ahead.
5
Malik and David arrived in Kinu just as the sun was setting, David’s bodyguards following behind in a black SUV. The drive from Abuja to Kaduna ought to have taken only three hours. Thanks to a collision between a dumper hauling rock and a truck carrying farm
produce, it had taken twice that long.
“We should have stayed in Kaduna and waited until tomorrow to drive out here.” David sat in the passenger seat of Malik’s rental—a bronze-colored Ford Explorer—firearms and other gear in the back. “The drive back will be risky.”
Malik hadn’t been able to wait, not when Kristi’s life was on the line. “If you’re worried about running into trouble, we could use the drone to make sure the road ahead is clear.”
“Drone?” David stared at him. “What drone?”
“The one in my bag in the back.”
“You brought a drone?” The worry on David’s face was replaced with glee.
“Yes.” Malik fought to keep a straight face at the abrupt change in David’s mood. The man loved tech. “Infrared. Two-hour flight time. Roughly a ten-mile range.”
David grinned from behind his Fendi sunglasses. “Excellent.”
Malik parked across from the mosque and near the village market, where vendors had begun to pack up their wares. “Do you want me to do the talking?”
“Let me.”
They climbed out, David’s bodyguards behind them.
People ignored them or cast wary glances their way, women in hijabs hurrying to bring small children indoors, older men bending their heads together. Malik couldn’t blame them for being cautious. Only a few days ago, bandits had attacked their village.
While the bodyguards stayed with the vehicles, Malik followed David toward a vendor who was packing up plantains, dried beans, and tinko—dried mystery meat.
David slipped off his sunglasses and spoke to the man in Naija, the words moving too fast for Malik to understand most of what was said. The vendor pointed with a nod of his head toward a bearded man with a red-and-white checked turban on his head who stood nearby, watching.
“You do well, friend.” David bid the vendor farewell with a bow of his head, then turned to Malik. “He says we should talk to the village imam. Don’t make direct eye contact, and bow your head in respect when you meet him.”
But talking to the imam turned out to be much more than a simple conversation. After an exchange of greetings, the imam invited them inside for tea, most of the conversation beyond Malik’s understanding. Tea became supper. It was only after bowls of goat stew and rice that the conversation turned to Kristi’s abduction.
David explained that Malik had come from the US to find her and showed the imam the photographs, including the newspaper photo of Kristi.
The imam studied the photos, a thoughtful frown on his face. He met Malik’s gaze. “Your woman?”
Malik assumed that’s what David had told him. “Yes. I must get her back.”
The imam handed the photographs back to David, speaking in rapid Naija once more, gesturing with his hands. Then the conversation moved on to crops and families, the imam dandling one of his grandchildren on his lap.
Malik fought to conceal his impatience. He didn’t want to offend David or the imam. But every moment they spent fucking around was another moment Kristi would have to suffer. By the time they got out of here, it would be too late to explore the forested area around the village.
This was taking too long. Every moment that passed left Kristi at risk.
Malik strode back to the vehicle, feeling as if his skin was on too tight. “What did the imam say? He talked forever.”
David looked over at him, a concerned frown on his face. “You need to relax, brother. This woman—she has you turned inside out. You won’t be able to save her if you rush in and get yourself killed.”
“Right.” Malik knew that. “It’s hard to think of her alone with killers.”
He didn’t have to explain.
“If she is remarkable enough to win your heart, she will be strong enough to get through this.” David answered his question. “The bandits who kidnapped your Kristi drove west after leaving the village. The imam thinks they cannot be too far from here because they come into Kinu to buy food from the market every few days.”
Malik stared at him. “They come here?”
He would have to get this information to Shields when they got back to the hotel.
“Even bandits have to eat. Now, let’s look at this drone.”
Malik unpacked it, checked to make sure it was fully charged, and handed the controller with its view screen to David. “Do you know how to fly one of these things? I can’t have you breaking Tower’s expensive new toy.”
David grinned. “Oh, yes. I have several of my own, but they’re nothing like this.”
Not wanting to attract too much attention, Malik drove a short distance from the village before they stopped, climbed out of the vehicle, and launched it, the device whirring as it took to the night sky.
David’s gaze was on the view screen, a big grin on his face. “There we are—green shapes.”
They got into the vehicle again, David keeping the drone airborne and about one klick ahead of them, watching the sides of the road for anyone lying in wait.
But Malik’s mind was on Kristi. “We need to move quickly now. It’s possible that someone in the village will warn the assholes about us next time they’re around.”
“This is true. Look!” He pointed at the drone’s view screen. “There are patas monkeys running through that field.”
By the time they got back to Kaduna, it was almost midnight, the drone sitting in the back, still in one piece, its battery spent.
“Thanks for your help today, David.” Malik would give credit where it was due. “I’ll put together a strategy in the morning and get out of your way.”
“We will make a plan.” He motioned to the backseat. “Leave this drone with me when you leave Nigeria with Kristi, and I will consider it payment.”
“I’ve got cash if you want cash.”
David didn’t look impressed. “How much?”
“Ten grand.”
David laughed. “That’s chicken change. Give me the drone, and we have a deal.”
Tower wouldn’t like this.
“Done.”
Kristi woke from a dreamless sleep early the next morning. Jidda and the others were still asleep, dawn’s first light coming through the open doorway. She combed her hair with her fingers, men’s voices and the scent of wood smoke telling her the camp was waking. At least no one had touched her last night. She’d gotten a little sleep.
Thirsty and hungry, she sat quietly, waiting for Jidda to wake so she could check his wound. She hoped to be able to suture it today or tomorrow. And then…
What would happen to her?
I think you are too valuable for me to let you go.
He hadn’t brought it up again. They’d spent last night gorging on roasted duiker and had barely noticed her, full stomachs leaving them relaxed and sleepy.
She’d thought about trying to escape, but where would she go? She had no idea which direction to go to reach help. They had the vehicle and could easily catch up. In her blue scrubs, she wouldn’t exactly blend into the landscape. If she ran and they caught her, they would make her pay.
What should she say if Jidda brought it up again? What would she do if he tried to get physical with her? Would she rebuff him and risk losing his protection?
It came down to how much she was prepared to endure to survive.
She had a clinical understanding of her situation. She’d taken care of Nigerian women and girls who’d survived captivity, most of them enduring rape and other kinds of brutality. She’d listened to them tell their stories, reassured them that their lives still had value, taken care of their bruised and battered bodies.
But, God, she’d never imagined she’d find herself in their shoes.
How hollow her words sounded now—and how incredibly brave those women were. They had endured the unspeakable, some of them for years, in the hope that they would survive long enough to escape or be rescued. As long as there was hope that she would be rescued and return to her own world, that’s what Kristi would have to do, too.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use what little power she had to her advantage.
It wasn’t long before the men awoke, one by one rolling up their bed mats and heading out of the hut.
“How do you feel this morning, Jidda?” She sat near his feet to check his wound, careful to stay out of reach of his hands.
“Better.” He watched as she removed the bandage. “It is healing.”
“Yes, it is. I think I can suture it tomorrow. But now it’s time for your antibiotics.” She reached into the duffel, took out the medications.
“We spoke about you last night.”
She feigned a calm she didn’t feel, her pulse racing. “Is that so?”
“Every person has a fate, and it is time to accept yours. We cannot let you go because you know our faces. You will stay with us as our nurse and my concubine.”
She placed the medications in his palm, almost shaking with rage and fear. “I don’t believe in fate. People get to decide how they will live. I am fine staying with you as a nurse for a while, but I will be no man’s concubine. I am married and will stay faithful to my husband.”
Jidda took the pills, swallowed them. “You will never see him again, so he is no longer your husband.”
“He is looking for me.” If only that were true… “The US government will try to find me, too. It would be best for you all if you drove me back to Kinu and let me go or asked for a ransom. My employer has insurance and will pay. You can make money.”
“It has already been decided.” He was clearly a man used to being obeyed.
Kristi scooted farther out of reach, pushed a smile onto her face. “My husband will find me, Jidda. When he does, he will kill any man who has touched me. That will become your fate.”
Jidda’s face screwed up with anger. “With one word, I could turn you over to my men. By the time they are finished, there would be as little of you left as there is of that duiker.”
“Who would help you then?” She stood, towering over him. “No, Jidda, I will be your nurse. I will take care of you and your men. But no man here will touch me—not even you.”
