Blood Ransom

by Lisa Harris

  “Five, ten minutes, maybe.” Mbella’s gaze lowered. “I would offer to take you back to my village, except…”

  Nick frowned at the pause. There was fear in the boy’s eyes.

  “What happened, Mbella?”

  “Other men, not with the army, they…they came to our village looking for you too,” he finally continued.

  Other men…Ghost Soldiers?

  Nick grabbed his water bottle and took a swig, not sure he wanted to hear what was coming next. “And…”

  The boy pressed his lips together. “They burned down three of our huts and beat my father.”

  “So this has become personal.” Nick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Mbella just shrugged. “Will the plane still fly?”

  “I hope so.”

  Nick glanced around him. The rebels had far less scruples than any government soldier and wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. And this was the kind of jungle where it wouldn’t be hard to disappear and never be found.

  The distant rumbling of an engine reached them. Mbella scrambled toward the plane. “They’re coming. We’ve got to go.”

  Nick shook his head. Before he could take off, there were things he had to check. Procedures to follow. He glanced down the narrow strip he’d planned to use as a runway. While the airplane didn’t require a long runway, taking off still wouldn’t be easy. One mistake and he’d end up clipping a tree and bringing the plane down.

  And there were other issues to consider. He’d changed the fuel filter, but there were no guarantees that the plane was ready to fly. No way to check weather patterns or ensure there were no other mechanical issues—

  Mbella tugged at his sleeve. “Come on, Mr. Gilbert. If the men who were at our village find you, they will do more than hit you on the head with their guns. You’ve got to hurry.”

  The boy was right. Money was always a huge motivator. Forcing himself to ignore his pounding temple, Nick made sure the path in front of the plane was clear before climbing into the cockpit and throwing on his seat belt. He pressed on the brake pedals to check the pressure and made sure all the electrical switches were off. So far, so good.

  “I can see them, Mr. Gilbert. They’re coming!”

  “I want you to run home.”

  “No—”

  “Now!”

  Nick drew in a sharp breath as Mbella tore off into the jungle. He forced himself not to turn around and watch the boy. He’d be fine. It was him they were after.

  Taking off without letting things warm up to operating temperature might not be good for the engine, but at the moment, that was the least of his worries. He turned the battery switch on. The fans began to whirl. Pumping the throttle, he turned the key and listened to the propeller start to turn.

  He glanced back. They couldn’t be much more than fifty meters behind him.

  I need a miracle, God…

  The plane shook beneath him as Nick eased the plane forward. The interior panels rattled, blocking out the sound of the pursuing jeep. Nick pushed the throttle further. A bullet pinged off the side of the plane.

  Twenty more seconds. That’s all he needed.

  Another bullet skimmed the side of the plane. If any damage had been done, it was too late now.

  Ten seconds.

  Nick eased up on the throttle. Trees whizzed by. The jungle closed in around him.

  He was out of runway.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 11:19 A.M.

  KALAMBALI SQUARE, KASILI

  Stephen slammed down the phone. The line was dead. He glanced at the clock on his computer screen and tried to shake the uneasy feeling that wouldn’t leave him. It was after eleven, and Natalie hadn’t shown up for work. Combing his fingers through his hair, he tried to make sense of the photos she’d brought him. Tried to find another explanation for what had happened.

  He rubbed the beads of moisture from his forehead with his handkerchief and eyed the stalled ceiling fan. No power meant no fans to relieve the heat. He might have lived beneath the Dhambizao sun for over four decades, but today was blistering hot.

  He undid the top button of his shirt and walked to the open window to catch the breeze. The uncut grass along the edge of the property stood motionless in the heat. The only thing moving was the uniformed security guard walking along the inside of the front gate.

  He pushed open the window farther and waited for a stray breeze to find him. Power outages, limited supplies, and the lack of progress, as the West called it, had always been a part of his life, rarely questioned along with the corruption, disease, and death that surrounded him.

  Rarely questioned, perhaps, but ever present. And with it, the underlying current of frustration and restlessness. The photos reminded him of that. Natalie’s claims that the photos were tied to a slave trade and rumors of a rigged election was something he didn’t want to believe. Among the dozens of candidates, Bernard Okella was the only real contender running against President Tau. The fifty-five-year-old from a rival tribe had risen through the ranks and managed to find a few friends in parliament—supporters who dared to openly oppose President Tau. No one expected Okella to win, but Stephen was afraid of what might happen if he did. He wanted to believe the UN’s promises of a fair election, but even President Tau’s additional assurances that this time things would be different rang hollow.

  Stephen moved to sit back down at his desk, still trying to erase the lingering horror of that fatal election seventeen years ago. That day, like today, had been stiflingly hot. Shops lining the streets had closed and been cleared of pedestrians by the police. The only vehicles out were driven by military officials ensuring people stayed in their houses. No formal meetings were allowed. No schools attended. No power…

  No power.

  His fingernails bit into the palm of his hand. The former president had given orders to cut the power in the city as added insurance people couldn’t communicate with each other or the outside world. He wanted complete control over the situation to guarantee his reign of supremacy continued.

  Stephen shook his head. Today was different. The power outage had nothing to do with the election. It was simply a technical issue. The power plants were too old and weren’t able to keep up with the demand. The same problem that had plagued the city for years.

  But if the power outage was connected through the elections…If there was a plan to rig the election to gain power over the country’s resources, including hundreds of slaves…

  He fished his car keys from the top drawer of his desk, then stepped outside and into his one luxury. Most Dhambizans didn’t even dream about one day owning a car. The odds were simply too remote. Unfortunately, he feared it wasn’t nearly as remote anymore as the odds of the wrong person gaining the presidency. Maybe there was one thing he could do to dismiss the connection of the lack of power and the upcoming election.

  He drove to the power station, hurried inside the one-story building, then flashed his government badge at the receptionist, demanding to see Mr. Diagne. Amadzi Diagne had been in his graduating class at the University of Bogama. They’d lost track of each other until they both found jobs in Kasili. Since then, they’d met for drinks every few months, rehashing their naïve days when they’d foolishly thought they could save the world—or at least their small part of it.

  The receptionist told him to take a seat and went back to drinking her morning tea. He complied and sat down on a cracked leather chair beside a man who was either looking for a job or a handout. More than likely, he’d get neither.

  Thirty minutes later, a second woman wearing a navy-blue uniform led Stephen down a long hall with chipped blue walls.

  “Stephen.” Amadzi stood as Stephen entered the office, reached out to shake his hand. “It’s been too long. I think I owe you a drink.”

  “It has been a long time.” Stephen shook his friend’s hand, then took the offered chair across the desk, wondering where the past twenty years had gone sinc
e they’d graduated together. Wondering even more so how many of those years he’d wasted. “Dema seems to be treating you well.”

  Amadzi patted his round stomach. “My wife complains that I work too many hours, but she still feeds me well so I can’t complain.”

  Stephen laughed. “And your children?”

  “They are fine. Neema graduates from university this year.”

  This time Stephen’s smile was forced as he remembered what he was missing with his own two girls. “You must be proud.”

  “I am. And what about your wife? I haven’t seen Anna in two, maybe three, years.”

  Stephen squirmed in his chair, hoping Amadzi didn’t sense his sadness. One day he’d learn to hide his grief. “She is well. She’s visiting her mother in Bogama with the twins.” He’d never admit she’d been there for the past seven months, or that she had no plans to return to their sparsely furnished apartment he’d bought for her five years ago. There were certain aspects of his life he had no intention of sharing with anyone.

  Stephen glanced around Amadzi’s office, trying to find some value in his own career. He couldn’t. Unlike the walls in the hallway, this room had been recently painted and lined with a half dozen file cabinets. Several calendars hung on the wall alongside diplomas and framed photos of family. The newness, though, stopped there. An archaic computer sat on the desk.

  Bernard Okella promised to change technology throughout the country with upgrades in electricity and phone lines if elected president. Stephen didn’t trust a word. Ten years from now they’d still be using out-of-date equipment and struggling to feed their children. That was the spoiled pot of goza they’d been handed.

  “I heard they promoted you.” Stephen swallowed any signs of jealousy. Stroke the giver and he just might receive the information he wanted.

  Amadzi held up his hand and shrugged. “They pay me half of what I’m worth, but even that bought me a second home outside Bogama.”

  “At least they have a good man in line to revamp our decrepit power system.”

  “Trying to flatter or insult me, Stephen? Why don’t you just admit yours is a dead-end job?”

  Stephen flinched. When he was half drunk the comment would have rolled off. Today it felt like a poisoned arrow to his heart, but he couldn’t afford to return the insult.

  “What I want is the truth,” he said instead. “The election is in two days and the city’s without power. A plot by President Tau or perhaps Bernard Okella, who wants to make a point to the voters of how rundown our city is?”

  “This has nothing to do with the election.” Amadzi’s gaze flickered, his lips pressed tightly together. “There was a fire.”

  Stephen read his eyes. “I don’t believe you. I need to know the truth. You remember as well as I do what happened seventeen years ago. Thousands were butchered in the streets and even more left homeless—”

  “You’ve never been one to push for answers, Stephen.” Amadzi stood and rested his hands against the top of his desk. “I wouldn’t start now if I were you.”

  “Why not?” Stephen stayed seated. He wasn’t ready to walk out. Not yet.

  “Like I said, there was a fire. One of the conduits overheated and will have to be replaced. I’ve been told that part of what is needed for the repairs won’t arrive until Saturday. Until then…well, I’m afraid we will all have to wait.”

  Stephen glanced out the open window that overlooked the power plant. A repair truck sat vacant. No workers. No sign that anything was being done to resolve the issue. A sick feeling knotted his stomach. With the phones down and the power out, they were like a zebra surrounded by a pride of lions: helpless.

  No. Stephen tugged on the collar of his shirt. Amadzi had given him a reasonable explanation. He should just walk away and accept the answer as truth. What did it matter? Nothing he could say or do would make a difference.

  Amadzi smiled as if they’d been chatting about the next World Cup. “Let’s go out for drinks next Friday night. The election will be over and life will go back to being normal again.”

  It was a dismissal. Stephen shook his old friend’s hand, said his good-byes. Amadzi was right. Why start asking questions now?

  Stephen walked down the sidewalk toward his car, jingling his keys in one hand. Patrick was there, leaning against the hood of Stephen’s car.

  Stephen stopped a few meters away. “What are you doing here, Patrick?”

  “I could ask you the same question.” Patrick slid a pair of sunglasses from his front pocket and put them on. “Let’s just say that Amadzi owed me a favor.”

  Stephen decided to ignore the clear implication that Patrick was having him shadowed. For now, anyway. “The power’s out. Phones are out. I thought—”

  “You thought what? That you could sweep in and save the day. You’re simply a liaison for the government aid programs, Stephen.” Patrick folded his arms across his chest. “There was a fire.”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “And you don’t believe it?”

  “With the elections in two days, I’m not sure what I believe.”

  “That’s your problem, Stephen. You’re like the president, running with both sides so you can please everyone. Eventually, you’re going to have to make a choice.”

  Stephen tried to ignore the hidden insult. “Natalie is missing.”

  If he’d hoped for a reaction, he didn’t get one. “She took a plane to Bogama yesterday afternoon with one of the doctors from here and the boy who took those photos.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s my job to know these things.” Patrick took a step closer to him. “Remember the proverb: ‘If you try and run after two warthogs, you’ll never catch either of them.’ ”

  Stephen’s jaw tensed. “Meaning?”

  “It’s time you decide which side you’re on.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 11:51 A.M.

  BOGAMA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Nick lined up the nose of the airplane with the narrow runway on the outskirts of Bogama, then let out an audible sigh of relief as the plane touched down onto the tarmac. His unexpected trip to the capital had taken him almost eighteen hours since leaving Kasili and had left his plane looking like a wedge of Swiss cheese. He knew his boss wasn’t going to be happy, but at least he’d made it here alive. Now he just needed to pray that Chad and Natalie had made it as well.

  He wiped off the beads of sweat on his neck. If they’d found a boat quickly and hadn’t run into any problems, there was a good chance they were already sitting in the air-conditioned lobby of the embassy. Which wasn’t a bad place to be at the moment.

  If nothing else, his recent brush with death had convinced him of two things. One, he was going to take out a bigger life-insurance policy. Second, he was going to call home as soon as he could find a comfortable bed for the night and a decent phone connection.

  He parked the plane, finished up the final landing checklist, then climbed down onto the steamy tarmac. Strange. The entire airport seemed to have been taken over by the military. Instead of the typical workers scattered across the runway in their bright orange jackets, uniformed military personal, tanks, and jeeps were everywhere.

  Two soldiers in full uniform hollered at him as he moved to assess the damage from the bullets that riddled the belly of the plane. The men approached the plane, stopping a couple of yards in front of him. Nick rubbed his jaw, which was still sore from his last encounter with the military. He wasn’t looking forward to another unscheduled meeting.

  Nick forced a smile. “I wasn’t expecting a welcome party, gentlemen.”

  “Captain Gilbert?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re looking for two Americans we believe were on this flight.”

  Nick pulled a piece of gum from his pocket, took off the wrapper, and shoved the cinnamon stick into his mouth. What was it with these military-type guys? Apparently none of them were up for chitchat. “W
hich two Americans are you looking for?”

  The tallest eyed the interior of the plane. “According to the flight plan, Chad Talcott and Natalie Sinclair were due late yesterday afternoon. Where are they now?”

  Nick hesitated, unsure if it was even possible to get around the request. With one man holding a machine gun in his hands and the other with his fingers resting on the trigger of his holstered handgun, it wasn’t likely. “As you can see, I didn’t have any passengers on this flight. I’m here to pick up some relief workers from Australia later.”

  From their grim expressions, neither seemed impressed with his answer. “Where are Talcott and Sinclair?”

  “I had to make an emergency landing in the jungle last night. Ended up being a blockage in the filter.” Nick thrust his logbook, with all his notes, into the man’s hands. “It’s all right there. We spent the night at a nearby village.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question. Where are your passengers?”

  Nick bit his tongue to stop himself from saying something he’d regret. “As I already told your pals who paid me a visit in the jungle, they needed to get to the capital in a hurry. And since I wasn’t sure how long it was going to take me to get the plane ready to fly, they decided to take a boat.”

  “So they left on their own?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many hours ago?”

  A knot formed in Nick’s stomach as he glanced at his watch. “About four, I guess.”

  “And do you know where they are now?”

  “No, I don’t.” Nick frowned at a second pair of uniformed men approaching. “What’s with all the extra security?”

  The man handed him back the logbook. “The army has mobilized for the upcoming election.”

  Mobilized? They’d all but taken over.

  “We need to search the plane.”

  Nick waved at the open door. “Then it’s all yours, boys.”

  They hesitated for a moment. He knew the way things worked here. They wanted him to be the one who sorted through the luggage holds, seat pockets, storage areas. Well, tough. He had nothing to hide. He’d be respectful, but they could do their own dirty work.