WAR: Disruption (3 page)

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.

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, moving 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.

Behind them, shouts continued to mix with gunfire. In the intermittent spells of quiet, she heard men crashing through the jungle. Oh, God. This was real. The rebels were really chasing them.

The image of Crystal and Sue falling flashed across her mind. She stumbled.

“Easy, there.” Her rescuer reached back and steadied her.

“Thanks.” She shot him a shaky smile.

He gave a nod of acknowledgment, then turned around and resumed running. Sweat trickled into Emily’s eyes, burning. She swiped angrily at it, but kept her focus on the stranger’s backpack as he easily navigated the jungle’s obstacles. God, she’d thought she was in good shape. But even hours of rigorous training since the accident hadn’t prepared her for running full-out while carrying a backpack across rough terrain in heat over ninety degrees with equal humidity. Who was this man who ran through the jungle so easily, even suffering from what she suspected was a cracked rib? Despite her best attempts, her pace had already slowed.

No. Can’t slow down. The rebels will catch me. Kill me. Like… Like…

Oh, God. How could this be real? How could she have gone from taking photos to running for her life?

Why did Crystal and Sue have to die? What had they ever done to—

Her rescuer cursed and stopped so abruptly, Emily nearly plowed into his back.

“Why are you stopping?” she demanded, glancing back over her shoulder. “Those men are going to find us. They’re going to kill us. They’re—”

The man slapped his hand over her mouth and pulled her back against his body with his other arm. “Quiet. Panicking isn’t going to help. Look.” He turned them around so that she could see that the ground in front of them dropped into a wide ditch clogged with grass and densely packed bushes.

“We almost fell in. Now, if I let you go, will you promise to stop screeching? Because even though the sounds of pursuit have faded, more hysterical shouting will act as a beacon to the rebels.”

She nodded and he dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t realize… I just…” She bit back a sob. “I don’t want to die.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly high on my agenda, either. Help me find another path so we can get the hell out of here.”

“Okay.” She held her breath a moment to listen and realized that he was right. She couldn’t hear the sound of men crashing through the jungle. Did that mean their pursuers had given up? Or had they simply switched tactics?

“Lady? Are you just going to stand there?”

“Sorry.” She looked around for an easy path through the tangle of vegetation. Having something to do steadied her and she could almost hear her father’s voice as he explained during their emergency training that the key to survival was to stay calm at all costs.

Stop. Assess. Plan.

Easier said than done, father.

“Here. This way.” The man gestured toward a faint break in the bushes to his right.

Emily froze, staring at his hand. It had scabs on the fingertips and a partially healed cut across the back. She slowly dragged her gaze up his body as her heart tripped in panic. His t-shirt was soaked with sweat and clung to the lean muscles of his torso. About six foot two, he carried himself with a focused confidence that screamed danger as much as the myriad bruises and scrapes hiding underneath his few days’ growth of beard. A cut split his lower lip. The tail of a partially scabbed over scrape peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

Her stomach twisted at these signs of violence. Had he been in a fight? Or maybe a car accident?

Was she really any safer with this stranger than on her own?

Instead of his ponytail, short, bluntly cut hair peeked out from underneath his baseball cap. Why had he cut his hair? The heat? Or to hide such a distinctive feature?

Was he the reason the men had attacked? Was he some kind of fugitive?

Had Crystal died because her hair had resembled his?

Her breath started coming in shallow pants as panic raised its head. Oh, God. He… Crystal…

“Hey. Are you okay?” His light blue eyes met hers with such fierce focus that she shivered.

Emily took a step back, shaking her head. Feeling the start of one of the panic attacks she’d developed after Agatha had thrown acid on her, she tried to focus on her breathing to calm herself down.

The man shifted, and she noticed that he held a matte black, semi-automatic pistol alongside his leg. Her breath caught and she took another step back. “You’re armed.”

Oh, God. She’d been right. He
was
dangerous.

He glanced down. “Yep.” With a casualness that spoke of long use, he slid the gun into a holster attached to his belt and twitched the tail of his shirt to hide it. Her father had drilled the family in emergency preparedness, including firearms, and she was pretty sure this man’s gun was military issue only.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded. “Are you CIA or—”

The man held a finger to his lips. “Shh. Someone’s coming.”

Emily listened. The white noise of birds, insects and other small, daytime critters had fallen silent. She didn’t hear any footsteps, but the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

A radio crackled nearby and Emily almost jumped out of her skin. Her companion put his arm around her and eased her carefully between the giant, buttressed roots of two ofram trees.

A man’s voice spoke in one of the local dialects, answering whoever had contacted him on the radio. Her rescuer stood slightly in front of her, blocking her view, his body tense, his gun out again and held at the ready.