WAR: Disruption

by Vanessa Kier

  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.

  Emily’s heart beat as fast as if she’d just performed a whirlwind set of pirouettes. Yet not being able to see the threat only frightened her more, so she peeked around her companion’s shoulder. Through the trees she could just make out the side of a man’s head and the black and yellow patch on his uniform. Was this the man who’d shot her friends?

  Please let him walk on by. I don’t want to die. Please let him walk on by.

  She held her breath and pressed closer to her rescuer.

  The rebel listened to the response from the other end of his walkie talkie, then grumbled a reply. He stomped around a bit, poked at the vegetation with the tip of his rifle, then walked off.

  Emily sagged against her companion. Inhaled the scent of male sweat and bug repellent and accepted that once again they’d escaped death.

  Her rescuer remained on alert for several more minutes. When he finally turned to her his face was set in a cold, hard expression that sent chills down her spine. She pulled back and he blinked, his light blue eyes warming with startling suddenness. “You okay?” he said quietly.

  She nodded, then shook her head. For a brief moment she had the urge to lean her head on his chest. Wanted to feel his strong arms around her and hear him tell her everything was going to be all right. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Crystal and Sue…

  Wait. What if he’d been wrong? What if those shots hadn’t killed them? Clinging to hope, she met his eyes. “Isn’t there a chance one of the women is still alive?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Those were fatal shots. Even if they hadn’t died instantly, the rebels would have killed them. I’m sorry. They really do hate all foreigners and they wouldn’t waste energy keeping injured ones alive.”

  Emily turned her head so he wouldn’t see her tears. She hadn’t known either woman well. Sue had been a retired kindergarten teacher and lifelong folk dancer, eager to branch out and learn West African dance. Crystal had been a college student trying to decide whether to major in dance or sociology. She’d also been a huge ballet fan and had oohed and ahed over Emily, treating her as if she were still an active ballerina, instead of an unemployed dancer with no future.

  Thinking about the bullets hitting the women, how their bodies had slumped to the ground, made her want to scream at fate for being so unfair. The images of the white man—middle-aged, medium height and build, ho
ney blond hair styled like a bank executive—and the rebel soldiers were forever burned into her mind. “They—” She cleared her throat and glanced back at him. “They have families. We have to tell someone so they…so they…”

  The man flinched slightly, then said, “As soon as we reach the capital, we can report their deaths to the embassy. Make certain someone goes back to retrieve their bodies.”

  Oh, God, he was right. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I…” She swallowed heavily. “Thank you.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s your name?”

  “Max.”

  She waited. When he didn’t elaborate, she said, “Just Max?”

  “Yep. And you are?”

  “Emily Iwasaki.” Years of ingrained manners had her last name popping out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  “Okay, Emily.” Max nodded, checked his watch, then glanced around the jungle. “If we continue that way,” he pointed to their right, “then angle back toward the road, we should make it to the next village by nightfall.” He turned and started walking.

  Emily followed, fighting back her sudden anger. She didn’t want to be stuck here in the jungle on the run from rebels with a man she didn’t fully trust. This was supposed to have been a safe place to visit. Not someplace that would demand the sacrifice of two wonderful women. Tired of being afraid, she embraced and nursed her anger for over an hour.

  “The rebels aren’t even supposed to be in this country,” she finally snapped, but only loudly enough for Max to hear her. “We were told it was safe.”

  Max gave a disbelieving laugh and shoved aside a hanging vine. “Who told you that? The tour company? Because if they did, they were trying to make a buck at the risk of your lives. The rebels might not have started a major offensive in this country yet, but they’ve been hopping back and forth across the western border for weeks now. And each time they do, they kill or capture whatever foreigners they find.”

  No wonder Masaud had seemed particularly tense when he’d come to pick her up. He must have known the danger had increased, yet been ordered not to say anything. “Is that what happened to you?”

  His body stiffened and she wished she could see his face. “No. My condition is the result of a personal disagreement.”

  “That must have been some disagreement,” she muttered. Yeah, right. She bet he really was a spy. “You never did answer my question. Are you CIA?”

  “Why do people assume that every American carrying a weapon is with the damn CIA?”

  “That’s not an answer. Besides, you didn’t give me a last name, exactly the sort of thing a CIA agent would do.”

  He snorted. “And you know so much about the CIA?”

  She felt her cheeks heat. But before she could respond, he said, “Think whatever you want.”

  “Well,” she huffed. “Who are you then?”

  “A history and folklore professor who likes his privacy and is just in the area gathering data for his next book.”

  This time she snorted. She might not have attended college, but no way could she picture this man with his barely contained energy and his military-grade weapon confining himself to a classroom or a stuffy office all day. “Don’t think I believe that for a minute. No history professor is going to carry such a—” No, better not let him know that she’d recognized his gun. “Such a…um…lethal looking weapon.”

  “With the unrest and the violence against foreigners, anyone in this area had better damn well be armed,” Max retorted.

  Okay, he had a point.

  “As an American woman, you shouldn’t even have come to this region,” Max continued. “What are you anyway, a college student or something?”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked the question, but still her breath caught on the pain of what she’d lost. “I was a ballet dancer.”

  “Was?” He turned his head and nailed her with those probing eyes.

  She gestured to her neck. “There was an…incident.” Somehow she couldn’t use the word attack. Not with this stranger. Attack made her feel too much like a victim. Too much like the naïve woman who hadn’t recognized that Agatha’s jealousy had spilled over into virulent hatred. “Acid…” Her hand jerked toward her scars, but she stopped herself from covering them. They were part of who she was now and she had to accept that. Like it or not.

  She cleared her throat. “I…ah…am no longer considered employable as a professional dancer.” The wrenching pain in her chest as she confessed the truth hadn’t lessened with time and she stared at the floor of the jungle. Everyone told her how lucky she’d been that the acid Agatha used had been weak. That her scars would have been much deeper if there hadn’t been water immediately at hand to quickly rinse the acid off. She should be grateful, they said, that she’d only suffered a minimal loss of range of motion on the right side of her neck and shoulder.

  What did they know? It wasn’t fair. Even though Agatha had been arrested instead of taking over Emily’s job as she’d intended, the woman had still succeeded in ruining Emily’s career. Once it had become clear that Emily’s damaged shoulder could no longer sustain the demanding positions required of a principal ballet dancer, she’d lost her job.

  Leaving her adrift in the world. What was she supposed to do with her life if she couldn’t dance? She’d never wanted anything else.

  “I’m sorry,” Max said. “That sucks.” To her surprise, he seemed to mean it. His expression softened, making him look younger. Less harsh. More approachable.

  But he carried a gun and bore signs of having survived physical violence. Even if the shooting back at the way station had nothing to do with him, he was dangerous. So she just gave a curt “Thanks.”

  Max returned his attention to the path he was forging. A few minutes later he said, “So what the hell were you thinking, coming to West Africa?”

  Scowling at his back, Emily rubbed her hands up and down her bare forearms. She’d been thinking that her best friend JoAnn was right. That she needed to get over her depression about not being able to dance professionally again. That a change of scenery might pull her out of the funk she’d fallen into.

  JoAnn had wanted to visit Africa and explore her family’s roots since she’d been a teenager. So when she heard about the month-long dance tour of West Africa that would raise awareness for the plight of war orphans, she’d bullied and cajoled Emily into going. Only, at the last minute a family emergency had kept JoAnn at home. Emily had cursed her friend out and nearly withdrawn from the trip, but JoAnn had made her promise to carry on for both of their sakes. And Emily’s therapist had told her that helping others would give her the sense of purpose she’d been lacking.

  Now Emily was grateful JoAnn had stayed at home. While she felt sick over the deaths of Crystal and Sue, losing her best friend would have been worse.

  “Hello? Emily?”

  “Sorry. I—” She shook her head. He didn’t need to know where her thoughts had gone. “We each learned the local dances. We were supposed to meet up and visit an orphanage that uses art and dance to heal children damaged by the war.” How naïve they’d been. “Then we’d go on tour to raise money and awareness for the orphans. And now—” Her throat tightened on a wave of grief. “It’s not fair! They didn’t do anything wrong, yet Crystal and Sue were shot down like…like…” She brushed away a tear.

  Max halted, put his hand on her shoulder, and squeezed gently. “I know it’s hard to stop thinking about what happened, but you have to stay focused. Our primary job is to keep ourselves alive. We have to find our way out of the jungle and to safety before the rebels find us. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” Giving her shoulder one last squeeze, he resumed walking.

  Biting her lip, Emily turned and followed him deeper into the jungle.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AS THE LIGHT under the trees faded to dusk, Max checked the compass on his watch again. Sulaiman’s village should be just around the next bend. H
e and Emily had been walking inside the jungle along the edge of the red dirt road for the past hour and a half and not a single vehicle had passed them. Not even a person on a bicycle. Odd. Last time he’d been in the area there’d at least been occasional foot traffic along the road. Maybe that had been a market day?

  “Almost there,” he announced. Emily muttered in what he thought was Japanese. The corner of his mouth lifted in reluctant admiration. She’d impressed him. Despite standing about five eight or five nine, her slender frame made her look fragile enough to knock over with a feather. It fit that she’d been a dancer, because even while carrying her backpack she appeared to be floating on air. As if gravity made an exception when it came to her.

  That impression of being delicate had made him worry about her stamina. But once they’d settled into a rhythm, she’d lost her uneven, panicked breathing and kept up with him without a word of complaint.

  Not that he was at peak performance. His ribs hurt like a mother and a bulge in his backpack that he hadn’t been able to fix kept bumping against the knife slice across his lower back. So his pace wasn’t nearly as rapid as he wanted.

  He slapped at a mosquito on his forearm, then winced as the smear of blood reminded him of the woman Ziegler had shot. It hadn’t escaped Max that she’d been targeted because her long, light blonde hair had been remarkably similar to his. And once Ziegler had turned on her, the rebels had shot her companions.

  A stab of guilt nearly took his breath away. His steps faltered. The women had families back in the States. People who didn’t know their loved ones were dead.

  Just like your family wouldn’t have known about your death if Ziegler had killed you.

  He clenched his teeth and shoved the guilt down deep, to be dealt with later.

  Yet his mind couldn’t completely leave it alone. Why the hell had Ziegler shot the girl so quickly? He was normally more controlled than that. Too cool-headed to indulge in the split-second decision to kill that he’d exhibited back at the lorry park. In fact, Max wondered what Dietrich would say if he knew that his second-in-command planned to kill Max and had involved the rebels in the hunt.