My heart beats in my throat. Blood gushes in my ears, drowning out the awful screaming of the monkeys.
Banga lifts his rifle and aims, looking left and right for the invisible danger.
Then I see it. A large baboon swings from a tree and drops to his feet three hundred meters in front of us. Standing on his back legs, he bares his teeth. Upright, he’s as tall as Banga, and his canines are the size of pocketknife blades.
“Shit,” Banga says quietly.
We stand frozen. A trickle of sweat runs down his temple and plops on the collar of his khaki shirt. He blinks sweat from his eyes and wipes a sleeve over his forehead before slowly resting the rifle against the hollow of his shoulder.
I swallow, not daring to take my eyes off the baboon. Saliva runs from his mouth as he watches us. If the locals chased him away with guns, he should be afraid of the one Banga is pointing at him, but there’s no fear in his crazed gaze. He howls at the sky and charges.
It’s too far to get in a good shot, but Banga acts instinctively, pulling the trigger. The baboon jerks. He stops and looks at the blood that pools on his side. No! There’s only one thing more dangerous than a rogue baboon, and that’s a wounded one.
Before Banga has reloaded, the baboon is charging again. My heart stops and starts painfully, the beat hurting my chest. Snarling, the beast dives through the air. Long, sharp, yellow teeth flash in front of me as he knocks Banga to the ground. The rifle falls from his hands. A scream splits the sky—a human scream this time. I act on pure instinct, snatching up the rifle and reloading while a mixture of tearing, animalistic growling, and human howling echoes in my ears.
I aim.
The baboon looks up. Blood drips from his jaw. Banga lies motionless, his cries quiet. The animal jumps on all fours. There’s no hesitation. He comes for me. I only have one shot at this. The weapon isn’t a shotgun with a wide range. It’ll have to be a killing shot. I can’t miss. I won’t have enough time to reload.
When he hurls himself through the air for a second time, I shoot. The bullet hits him between the eyes. He falls between Banga and me. I reload and shoot again, just to be certain, even if he’s not moving.
The pain in my chest is acute, my heart battling to meet the adrenaline demand of my body. Reloading again, I go over and press the barrel against the big male’s chest. Dead. His eyes are glassy.
Throwing down the weapon, I run to Banga. There’s blood everywhere. A pool of red has already soaked his shirt. Gripping his collar, I rip the shirt down the front. Buttons fly everywhere. His chest is torn up, the skin and flesh an ugly mash of meat and blood. My hands tremble as I yank my tank top over my head and push it against the wound, but the blood seeps through my top and pumps through my fingers.
Fuck.
Shit.
“Shona!”
Trembling, I keep pressure on the wound with one hand while I battle to fish my phone from my pocket with the other. I can only call one person, and I have no idea where he is or how long it will take him to get here, but he can call Shona and get someone from the clinic to help.
The line connects.
“Cas, I told you—”
“It’s Banga.” I’m surprised at how calm my voice is. “He’s been attacked. Baboon. He needs to go to a hospital.”
“Fuck. Hold on.” He barks a command at Leon to get a car. “Where are you?”
“On the path close to the bridge.”
“Alone?”
“Just me and Banga. He was walking me to your room.”
“I’m forty-five minutes away. I’m calling Shona. Do you have Banga’s gun?”
“Yes.”
“Keep it with you.”
“He’s in a bad shape, Ian.”
“Hold on, baby. I’ll get someone there as fast as I can. Keep your phone with you. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes.”
“What are his injuries?”
“He’s losing a lot of blood. I can’t stop the bleeding.”
“Hang in there, Cas. I’m going to hang up now so I can call Shona and an ambulance. Can you keep it together for me?”
“I’m good. It’s Banga you need to worry about.” I can’t speak more past the lump in my throat.
“I’m on my way,” he says before cutting the call.
“Shona!”
I yell until more birds scatter and the monkeys go quiet. I yell until my voice is hoarse, but only the drums and the river answer. Distractedly, I’m aware of burning in my knees. The paper bag lies on the ground. I can’t remember dropping it, but the bottle of wine has broken. That’s what’s hurting. I’m kneeling in the shards of glass. The wine is the color of Banga’s blood, staining the soil beneath my knees.
Dumping my phone on the ground, I push both palms over the wound, but the blood keeps on pumping. There’s a ringing sound in my ears that mixes with a human scream. Shona. She comes running up to us. Calling to her ancestors for mercy, she falls down onto her knees on the other side of me.
“We have to get him back to the lodge,” I say.
She stares at the dead baboon.
“Shona!”
Her gaze flickers back to me. “He’s too heavy. Garai is on his way.”
“Where’s the nearest hospital?”
“The clinic.” She places her hands over mine and starts crying as the blood taints both our fingers.
“Can they do blood transfusions there?”
She shakes her head.
“Where?” I ask.
“Zambia, maybe. Maybe Harare.”
“Does Ian have a pilot?”
“He’s using someone from South Africa.”
Shit. I start to shake. Delayed shock.
Garai appears on the path, running like the devil is behind him. Two men follow on his heels. I recognize them from their uniforms without looking at their faces. They’re the guards stationed at the gate.
The three men carry Banga to the main building while Shona and I run alongside, me carrying the gun and my phone and Shona the ruined banana and apple. I don’t know why she even bothered to pick that up. Shock does strange things to people.
At the lodge, they carry him into the office and lower him onto the sofa.
“First aid kit,” I say, handing the gun to one of the guards to free my hands, not that I know what else to do for Banga.
“What’s that going to help?” Shona asks hysterically. “He needs a transfusion. An operation.”
I place a hand on her arm, smearing blood over her skin. “We have to keep calm.”
The oldest guard speaks in Tswana. “What about the clinic?”
“Do they have a doctor on site?” I ask.
“No,” Shona says. “Only the nurse.”
The noise of a helicopter sounds overhead. My phone rings. Ian.
“Where are you?” he asks when I answer.
“In the office.”
“A helicopter is on the way. They’ll fly Banga to Harare.”
“It’s here.” I drag a hand over my face. “I can hear it outside.”
“Who’s with you?”
“The guards and Garai. Shona is here too.”
“Tell them to take Banga to the helicopter.”
“Okay.”
“How are you doing?’
“Good.”
“Almost there.”
I cut the call and instruct the men to carry Banga outside. It’ll be quicker than waiting for the paramedics to run to the building and back to the helicopter.
The helicopter stands in a small clearing not far from the main entrance. The blades are turning, kicking up wind and dust. Two men in white tunics are offloading a stretcher when we get there.
They secure Banga and load him inside.
“I’m going with him,” Shona says, taking the hand one of the paramedics offers to climb up the step.
I nod. Ducking, I shade my eyes from the wind of the rotors as they take off. The noise of the helicopter is deafening as it li
fts to the sky. The sound of the blades chopping the air stretches farther and farther until an eerie quietness falls over the space. The two guards are flanking me, but I feel strangely alone as I stand in the clearing surrounded by thorn trees and night.
Crickets chirp. An owl hoots somewhere. I’m having a hard time focusing. I’m battling to decide what I should do.
“We should go inside,” one of the guards says.
“Yes.” I turn automatically to follow him.
They take up posts by the entrance. To guard me or to make sure I don’t run away? I can’t think straight. It doesn’t matter. I’m in a stunned kind of limbo, unable to focus on anything but Banga.
My autopilot function takes over. Going to the kitchen, I get a bucket of water, a brush, and bleach. I wash the blood from the sofa, but it’s soaked through the leather. I scrub the floor and get clean water to rinse it. Not knowing what else to do but needing to keep busy, I scrub it again.
I’m scrubbing furiously when Ian walks in with Leon and Ruben on his heels. I don’t stop. I scrub like my life depends on it, because then I don’t have to think. I don’t have to acknowledge the what-ifs.
A strong hand locks around my wrist, stilling my action.
I look up into Ian’s face. His tanned complexion is pale and his eyes tight with worry. His nostrils flare as he drags a gaze over me. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “Will he be all right?”
Taking my elbows, he pulls me to my feet. “We’ll know later. They haven’t landed yet.”
“Where is it?” Leon asks, his body tense.
I point toward the river. “In the path.”
Ian takes the throw from the back of the sofa and drapes it around my shoulders before pulling me under his arm. “Let’s get you to the room and check you out.”
It’s only then I realize I’m only wearing a bra. I left my top with Banga. The paramedics must’ve taken it with him.
Each of the men takes a rifle. Leon goes in front and Ruben at the back while Ian and I walk in the middle.
At the sight of the baboon lying with a slack jaw, we stop.
Leon bends over it. “Looks like it was shot in the side.”
“What happened?” Ruben asks.
“It charged from the trees. Banga took a shot but only wounded it. It was on him before I could get hold of the rifle.”
“Then what?” Leon asks.
“I waited until I had a good shot and killed it.”
Ian’s fingers tighten around my shoulder, squeezing to the point of pain.
“Between the eyes,” Leon says. “Twice?”
“The second was just to be sure it was dead. I knew I only had one shot.”
Leon looks at me with something like respect.
“Enough,” Ian says. “She needs medical treatment.”
“We’ll get rid of this,” Ruben offers, motioning at the baboon.
“You do that.” Hugging me closer, Ian says to Leon, “Let the people in the village know we’ll send news about Banga as soon as we have an update. They’ll worry.”
“What about his family?” I ask as he leads me down the dark path and over the bridge. “Shouldn’t you fly them out to be with him?”
“We’re the only family he’s got.”
In the darkness, I can’t see his face, but I can hear the tension in his voice. “Why doesn’t he have five wives like everyone else?”
“Because he’s gay.”
The revelation comes as a surprise. I would never have guessed, but now that Ian mentions it, I start to put two and two together. Banga never flirts with the women like the other guys.
Ian doesn’t let me go for a second. At his bungalow, he hugs me close to him while he does the customary check for creepy crawlies before he ushers me to the bathroom and makes me sit on a wicker bench.
Kneeling at my feet, he stares at me with a pained expression as he removes my shoes. When he tugs at the throw, I realize how tightly I’m gripping the edges together. He gives another gentle tug, and I let go. His gaze tightens as he sweeps it over me.
“Does it hurt anywhere?” he asks.
“My knees,” I say through numb lips. I can’t expel the image of Banga on the ground with his chest torn to shreds.
He unbuttons my jeans, and when he squeezes my hip, I lift my ass for him to pull them over my legs.
“It’s my fault,” I whisper. “It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t walked me here.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says through clenched teeth. “It could’ve happened anywhere and to anyone.”
“He only wanted to knock off early,” I mutter. “If I hadn’t stopped in the kitchen for food—”
He cups my cheek. “You can’t think that way.”
It’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear Banga is going to make it.
Pain lances into my knees when he drags the jeans all the way down and frees my feet. My knees are cut, pieces of glass from the wine bottle still lodged inside.
“Fuck.” He straightens. “Don’t move.”
He goes through the cabinet under the basin and returns with a first aid kit. “I’m going to remove the glass before we get you into the shower, okay?”
I nod.
“Come.” He takes my hand to help me up. “Let’s rinse your legs off in the bath.”
He lifts me inside the tub and makes me sit on the edge while the water runs warm. Using the nozzle, he rinses the blood from my knees. The water stings. Every so often, he lifts his gaze to my face, measuring my reaction.
When the blood is gone, he grabs a pair of tweezers from the kit. “This is going to hurt.”
I bite my lip. My pain threshold is high, but it’s the weak fluttering of my heart that worries me. I’m starting to get that out-of-breath feeling, which is never a good sign.
He pulls out a thick piece of glass. The burn makes me gasp.
“Sorry,” he says, giving me another pained look.
“It’s okay.”
Piece by piece, he removes the shards. He rinses away the fresh blood, pulls me up, and helps me out of the bath.
“My pills,” I say, feeling lightheaded.
I don’t have to elaborate. He knows what I need.
“Stay here,” he says, giving me an examining look before he moves to the door.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is matted and my face streaked with red. My white cotton bra and upper body are smeared with blood. I’m a mess. The vision shocks me. I’m trembling when Ian steps back into the bathroom with my pills in his palm and a glass of water in the other hand.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the pills and swallowing them with the water.
He says nothing. He waits until I’ve finished the water to take the glass and leave it on the vanity. After stripping my underwear, he runs a shower. He doesn’t put my clothes in the washing basket. He rolls everything into a bundle and dumps it in the trashcan.
The same thought goes through our minds, because he says, “Don’t worry. Banga doesn’t have blood transmissible infections. I have my staff tested on a regular basis.”
I suppose the bloodstains won’t come out. Anyway, the jeans are torn on the knees.
“I’ll get you new clothes,” he says. “Pretty clothes, like you deserve.”
Clothes are the least of my worries. In the bigger scheme of things, clothes are trivial. “Can you get me a new heart?”
He stills. So do I. I didn’t mean to blurt that out. It has nothing to do with my physical heart and everything with emotions, and the guilty look on his face says he knows it. The pity in his brown eyes hurts me more than the fact that he doesn’t answer.
Chapter 14
Ian
Cas just told me I broke her heart, and I don’t have a comeback. We both know she wasn’t referring to her medical condition. She never complains about the weak heart she’s been born with. She lives with it like animals live with their injuries, accepting the sh
itty and unfair part of life without making a fuss. That’s why I respect animals a lot more than people, but fuck, Cas is at the top of my admiration list.
She could’ve been dead. Both she and Banga would’ve been dead if she didn’t know how to fire a gun. The thought shakes me. The notion turns my world upside down, because if I lose her, it would kill me. We’d been tracking that baboon for days, and when Garai lost all trace of it the day before yesterday, we thought it had found a remote place to die. The old male had been challenged by a new alpha and cast out as the weaker of the two. He’d carried on alone for a bit, living in isolation, but eventually he’d gone rabid.
Imagining her facing that animal alone is a dark place I can’t go. Seeing her standing on the bath rug covered in blood with her knees cut up wakes every protective instinct I own. When the water in the shower runs warm, I remove my clothes and help her into the stall. I use the nozzle to rinse down her body before lathering her with soap and washing her hair. I inspect every inch of her skin. Her shoulders are sunburnt and her palms sport some nasty blisters. There’s a thick splinter under the skin of her right hand. She groans when I gently massage her back to ease some of the tension.
The water runs cool before I turn it off and wrap her up in a big towel. I make sure she’s dry and the water squeezed out of her hair so she won’t be cold when I dress her in my robe. Next, I attend to the blisters and the splinter.
With the task of bandaging her hands done, I pull the robe down her shoulders and rub after-sun lotion into her skin. Scooping her up into my arms, I hug her to my chest as I carry her to the bedroom. After lowering her onto the sofa, I take just enough time to pull on a pair of boxers before getting her hairbrush to brush out her hair.
I want to take care of her to mend what I’ve broken. I can’t fix the hurt I’ve caused in her heart, but I hope she’ll understand why I had to treat her like dirt. I deal with mean motherfuckers. I don’t want them to know how important Cas is to me. I don’t want to put her life at risk more than I already have.
A knock sounds on the door. Leon pushes it open with one hand, carrying a tray in the other.
“I brought her some tea,” he says.
I nod, signaling for him to enter.
Stolen Life Page 14