Blood Ransom

by Lisa Harris

“He’ll be fine, Natalie.” They dragged him from the front seat and laid him on the side of the road. “This road has people walking on it all night. Someone will find him.”

  She glanced at the shadowy image of the unconscious man, then squeezed her eyes shut.

  Chad slid into the driver’s seat. “Can you get us to Rachel’s with the address you have?”

  “In the taxi?”

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  She shook her head. We can call her on a public phone to get directions. The photo of Joseph’s sister emerged in her mind. It was enough to make her scramble around the car into the passenger seat. Joseph jumped into the back.

  Chad slammed his foot against the accelerator. “Then let’s get out of here.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 5:46 P.M.

  DOWNTOWN BOGAMA

  Chad breathed in the smell of exhaust and grilled meat through the open window of the taxi. A car sped past them, its headlights briefly illuminating the cab. His stomach soured as he drove down one of the main streets of the capital. A pair of soldiers patrolling the streets walked in front of a colorful barbershop sign, their guns held high across their shoulders. He sucked in a lungful of air, then glanced briefly in the rearview mirror as they drove past a row of shops made from wood slats and sheets of tin. The soldiers seemed unaware that two Americans had just driven by in a stolen taxi.

  He blew out a sharp breath of relief. Perhaps in the darkness that now settled over the city their chances were better. Tomorrow the street corners would be filled with the noisy clamor of vendors and pedestrians. Staying undetected would be impossible.

  Natalie turned on the radio, scanning for stations until she found one broadcasting the news. Tonight’s report was no different from most nights. Political, educational, health, and tribal issues ruled the headlines, with the added assurances of a peaceful election on Friday despite some random outbursts of violence in the city. And there was, to quote the president, nothing to fear.

  Nothing to fear.

  Chad frowned. If that were true, then why had the RD army been sent after him and the photos? If nothing else, today’s events proved that Joseph’s photos threatened someone’s rise to power. But whose?

  A broken streetlight dangled above a group of street children huddled on the sidewalk. Their haunted expressions reminded him how fragile life was. Earning a few cents every day by sweeping stalls in the market, shining shoes, or selling fruit on street corners gave them barely enough to survive on. Going a day without food wasn’t uncommon. Education was a luxury not even dreamed about by most. Joseph had been one of the lucky ones.

  He turned and looked at the young man. “Where does your uncle live, Joseph? It’s too dangerous for you to be traveling with us.”

  Joseph shook his head. “I must find my family…How can I do that at my uncle’s house.”

  Chad stopped at a signal light, then glanced at Joseph in the rearview mirror. “If you’re not with us you’ll be safer. And we promise to do everything we can to find your family.”

  Joseph’s jaw clenched. “I know this city…the streets…the people…and the language. You need me.”

  Natalie’s frown deepened. “Maybe that’s true, but if anything happened to you, I could never forgive myself—”

  “Don’t worry.” Joseph shook his head. “This is my choice.”

  Chad caught the reflection of a pair of lanterns alongside the road ahead and let out a low whistle. “Maybe not. There’s a police roadblock ahead, which means that none of us may have a choice as to where we’re going tonight.” He eased off the accelerator. “We’ve got less than thirty seconds to decide whether or not we storm through the roadblock.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Natalie flipped shut the map she’d been looking at. “We can’t just drive through.”

  “If we stop, they’ll arrest us,” Chad countered. “And I don’t know about you, but I’ve heard the RD prisons don’t exactly compare to Holiday Inn.”

  Natalie shook her head. “In other words, doomed if we do, doomed if we don’t.”

  “Wait.” Joseph leaned forward and rested his arms on the back of the front seat. “Slow down, then at the last minute, speed up.”

  “And break through their barrier?” Natalie asked.

  Joseph nodded.

  “You sound like you’ve done this before,” Chad said.

  “They won’t expect it, and because they are on foot, they won’t come after us.” He pointed up ahead to the left. “There is a road ahead where you can turn.”

  “Everyone get down.” Chad gripped the steering wheel. “And start praying.”

  Chad continued slowing as if he were preparing to stop. One of the guards searched the back of another taxi. A second one waved them down. Two large barrels were the only things blocking the road. Chad waited until the last minute, then jammed on the gas. A sick feeling washed over him as the taxi clipped the edge of one of the barrels. The front of the car shimmied as gunfire erupted behind them.

  TWENTY-NINE

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 12:02 P.M. EST

  WASHINGTON DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Gabby stepped off the Boeing 767 onto the people mover and felt a cold gush of air fill her lungs. The pungent smell of diesel fuel mingled with the musty scent of travelers who’d flown from Paris to DC the past eight hours with little more space than a sardine can. Readjusting the strap of her backpack, she grabbed onto the nearest metal pole while trying to fight the fatigue.

  She took a swig of water from her plastic bottle and forced it down as the mobile lounge crossed the tarmac toward the terminal. All she needed now was enough oomph to make it through Immigration and Customs. She turned her mind to plans she had to make for her upcoming trip to Aspen with her family over Christmas. A far cry from the blistering heat and mining camps she’d just spent the past couple of weeks investigating. And the horrors of her last night in the RD.

  A man wearing a green baseball cap with a red dragon glanced back through the crowded people mover and caught her gaze. European, mid-forties, balding…and vaguely familiar. Her stomach roiled, but she shoved aside the wave of panic Tuesday night’s attack had spawned. She’d found out that their driver had survived the attack, but they’d all been lucky.

  The man stared out the window. More than likely he was simply another businessman who made his living traveling seventy-five percent of the year to make money for a family he rarely saw.

  She’d known the risks of her investigation when she’d agreed to the assignment, and that just because she was on American soil again didn’t guarantee she was safe. She tightened her grip as the mobile lounge docked at the terminal, believing the risk had been worth it. Once published, she hoped the information would explode across the front pages of dozens of newspapers around the world.

  Forty-five minutes later, she breathed in a sigh of relief as she hurried toward the Arrival escalators in the main terminal, thankful she’d opted out of checking any bags—a choice that could easily have added another hour to her wait.

  Sabrina, her best friend and roommate, stood at the front of the crowd wearing blue jeans and a Washington Redskins sweatshirt. “Hey! You made it back.”

  “Finally. It’s good to see you.” Gabby forced as smile, then looked past her friend, searching the sea of faces, not sure what she was looking for. “I had my doubts once or twice.”

  Someone collided into her, knocking her bag from her shoulders.

  “Sorry about that.” An older man nodded his apologies and walked away.

  Gabby stiffened at the innocent assault.

  Sabrina handed her the bag. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Gabby automatically felt for her neck pouch with its wire-reinforced strap. Adam might have tried to assure her that Tuesday night’s attack involved nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but she wasn’t willing to take any chances—even this far away from t
he Dark Continent.

  “I’m fine, really.” She followed Sabrina outside the main terminal. “Just tired. You know how grueling a couple of days on a plane is, then add someone who can’t stop talking beside you.”

  “Yes, actually, I do. Remember that flight I took last year from Singapore. That woman talked all the way to LA nonstop.”

  A message came through on her cell phone. She sneezed, then clicked it open to check. She’d already checked them upon arrival, but if Adam had found Yasin, there was a chance she might still be able to add a quote before today’s deadline.

  Sabrina was still talking. “Michael took me to this fantastic little Indian restaurant while you were gone that you’re going to love. If you’re hungry, they make the most incredible spring rolls, and you wouldn’t believe their…Gabby?”

  Gabby stopped at the edge of the curb. “I’m sorry, Sabrina…I…”

  She replayed the message. Surely she hadn’t heard it right: “Last night wasn’t a mistake.”

  “Gabby?” Sabrina grabbed her arm as a car zipped around them.

  “Last night wasn’t a mistake.”

  A chill swept through her. She took a deep breath, exhaling on the overwhelming odor of exhaust from a passing car, and shoved her phone back into her front pocket. She might have been targeted last night, but what about the hundreds who couldn’t simply walk away from the terror like she could. How could she let a threat stop her from doing what she knew she had to do?

  THIRTY

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 6:14 P.M.

  KALAMBALL QUARE, KASILI

  Camille’s face haunted Stephen. Memories he’d buried years ago now refused to lie dormant. He dug through the bottom drawer of his desk until he finally found the worn photo. Seventeen years had passed. He’d since married, fathered two children, and made a new life for himself. And still he’d never forgotten. He knew his wife, Anna, would never understand the hold Camille held over him, and she would be right. He’d let ghosts from the past turn him into someone he hardly knew anymore, and in the process he’d lost both Anna and his girls.

  Camille stared back at him from the picture, reminding him of how beautiful she’d been. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept the snapshot. Perhaps as a reminder of what he’d lost—and of what he could never have.

  He frowned. He knew what Camille would tell him right now if she was still alive. But while he’d always admired her zeal for life, she’d failed to understand one thing: sometimes standing up for what one believed in not only managed to hurt oneself, but also those one loved.

  He’d escorted Camille home from work the day of the election, alongside houses with corrugated tin roofs and swept front yards. The roads were filled with potholes and bordered by dozens of kiosks where people sold everything from dried fish to shoelaces simply to make enough to eat one meal a day.

  Bogama had become a city on the brink of war whose citizens were used to hiding behind high walls topped with razor wire. Despite the concentrated military presence, he’d never trust Camille’s safety to the dozens guarding the streets. They patrolled in uniformed groups beside tanks and other signs of the upcoming election. Huge banners blew in the wind claiming victory by both sides. Stephen was afraid no one would win. Promises from their leaders were rarely fulfilled.

  He’d tried to convince Camille to leave the chaos along with the thousands of others who had already fled the capital. Anyone who could was leaving. The current president had given them little choice. At eighty-four-years old, his health had deteriorated to the point where he could no longer make rational decisions, but even that hadn’t loosened his tight grip on the country. Samuel Tau had stepped up with promises to lead the country into an era of peace and development despite those who insisted the president’s son was to take the next term of power. The resulting tribal clashes had already left two hundred dead from fights in the streets between the army and the police.

  Those who could afford it fled the city. Those who couldn’t leave hid in their homes, praying that God would save them and bring an end to the conflict. God chose to do neither, and Camille had ignored the warnings and insisted on staying. The children at the mission where she worked needed her, she told him. Her mother needed her. It didn’t matter that he needed her too. That he wanted to get her out and protect her.

  Then what he’d feared most happened. A group of solders stopped them halfway to her house. One spun a pistol around his finger, laughing at the game of Russian roulette he played. They were drunk, loud, and focused on displaying their power. They proved it by forcing him to stand helpless as they raped and killed her in front of him.

  There was nothing Stephen could have done to save her—or so he’d convinced himself as the scenario played over and over in his mind during the months after her death and the bloody election that followed. President Tau might have managed to eventually squelch the uprisings when he took power, but even his lengthy rule couldn’t erase the mistrust Stephen had toward authority.

  He’d heard the promises that this current election would take place without any of the horrors his country remembered. Natalie’s discovery had managed to shatter any illusions that this time would be different—that this time his country might escape another mass bloodshed. Natalie was too much like Camille. Too stubborn to leave. Too naïve to realize the consequences.

  Stephen lit a match and watched the yellow flame eat at the corner of Camille’s picture. Its faded colors blended together before spilling black chunks of ash across his desk. He shook the match and tossed it beside the ashes. With his pointed accusations Patrick had been right about one thing: he’d spent his life pleasing both sides, while at the same time making no claims to either. He’d thought he’d be able to survive unscathed, but in the end it had cost him his career, and now his wife and children.

  He blew out the flickering flame, then tossed the damaged photo into the metal trash can beneath his desk. He had one card left to play, and this time he knew what he had to do.

  THIRTY-ONE

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 6:37 P.M.

  RACHEL BOTELA’S APARTMENT, BOGAMA

  Joseph had been right. Except for a few warning shots, the police hadn’t tried to stop them. But that hadn’t stopped Natalie’s heart from racing the following fifteen minutes as they’d made their way toward Rachel’s building in the cover of darkness. Now the three of them sat exhausted and dirty, needing to convince Rachel that the Ghost Soldiers weren’t a myth and that they might be the only ones who could stop them.

  Natalie studied Rachel’s expression as one by one her friend flipped through the pictures on the coffee table in her apartment. These images were the only thing they had to convince Rachel to help them. The three of them had been greeted cautiously at the door. Whether this was because of their presence or simply a reflection of the tension in the city before a major election, Natalie didn’t know, but with the photos of Aina and the other villagers in front of her, Rachel’s normally warm smile had vanished completely.

  Natalie shoved aside a loose strand of hair, then felt it fall across her forehead again. Twenty-four hours of running had left her needing a shower and a good night’s sleep, but sleep would have to wait. For now, they had to ensure Rachel was on their side. Showing her the photos had seemed the best place to start.

  A minute later, Rachel dropped the last picture onto the small coffee table in front of her. “I’ve worked in hospitals for over four years now, and in that time I’ve seen things I’ll never forget. Accident victims, rape victims, women beaten by their husbands…But these photos tell a story I don’t want to hear. The Ghost Soldiers are supposed to be rumors, nothing more.”

  “The photos prove otherwise,” Natalie told her. “They’re real, Rachel, which means the slave trade is real. That’s why we’re here. We need your help.”

  “Is there anyone you recognize?” Chad asked.

  “I don’t know. Most don’t have clear shots of the soldiers’ faces.” She picked up the p
hoto Joseph had captured of the two men talking about the assassination. “This man…the man on the left is Daniel Biyoya. He’s one of the county’s senior military officers.”

  Chad let out a low whistle. “What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing, really. I’ve just seen his face on the news.”

  “It’s a start.” Chad tapped his finger on the other man in the photo. “What about the man he’s talking to?”

  “I don’t know.” Rachel shook her head and pressed her lips together. “And even if the Ghost Soldiers are real, I don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

  “You have access to demographics of the country that might help us pinpoint where they are taking people. If we could compare them, look for discrepancies…”

  “I’ve studied the research, and I’ve never seen anything that hints of the existence of slave camps.”

  “There’s more. Someone is trying to cover up what’s happening,” Natalie continued. “When Joseph took the photos, he overheard one man assuring another that the election was set.”

  “A rigged election?” Rachel stood and crossed the worn carpet, stopping beside the closed window that overlooked the city, and turned to face them. “That’s a strong accusation for such little proof.”

  “What’s happened the past twenty-four hours is enough proof for me, and if whoever wins is behind the slave trade, then it will continue.” Natalie caught Rachel’s gaze. “Patrick is high up in the government—”

  Rachel’s chin shot up. “You think Patrick has something to do with this?”

  Natalie held up her hand. “I’m not saying that.”

  “Then what are you saying?” Rachel asked.

  Chad cleared his throat. “Patrick was leading an investigation. An investigation that claims there isn’t any proof of the Ghost Soldiers or a slave trade—”

  “No.” Rachel’s voice rose a notch. “You’ll never convince me Patrick is involved in some cover-up conspiracy.”