by Vanessa Kier
Only two vehicles had passed while she’d been standing here. Both had been older model cars covered with rust spots. The bakkie she’d stolen, with its peeling paint and rust spots, wouldn’t stand out. Locals would likely have seen it before. Whether it was usual for the vehicle to be out at night, or even out on this road, she didn’t know. But as long as no one took a good look through the windows, she should remain anonymous.
She decided to head right, toward civilization, since that was the town Seth had been driving toward when they’d broken down. But before she reached civilization, she’d have to pull over and find a hidden spot to spend the rest of the night.
Mind made up, she climbed behind the wheel, turned the headlamps back on, then pulled onto the road. With a proper surface underneath the tires, the kilometers seemed to fly by. Her spirits rose. She hummed to herself.
She was adding a new coda to the song she’d been composing since that night on the beach when the engine coughed. Kirra’s heart sank. The engine immediately caught and continued running. “Thank you.” She gave the dash a relieved pat.
She hadn’t driven much farther when the engine sputtered. The whole chassis shook. Then the engine died and the bakkie shuddered to a halt.
“Don’t do this to me!” Kirra slapped her palm on the dash, but the engine didn’t miraculously come back to life.
A bus roared up behind her. Shapes were piled on its roof and it swayed precariously as it rocketed toward the bakkie. Kirra pressed the button for the hazard lights and dove toward the passenger door. She struggled to get the door open, but the latch wouldn’t budge. Cursing, she turned the handle to lower the window. When it was halfway down, she started wriggling through.
The brakes on the bus screeched. Someone shouted a warning. Kirra turned her head and watched in horror as the bus skidded into a left turn. Its back end slewed around and struck the rear of the bakkie.
Chapter Twenty
“Albert Sankoh just called Bureh to make a deal,” Rio’s informant said over the secure satellite phone connection. “He has the pilot Michael Hughes.”
Damn. Rio rubbed between his eyes. When the CIA had explained that the price of saving his life was that he’d have to work undercover for them, he’d thought he’d be working alone. Not running a network of informants and spies. Worse, he had to balance what information he passed on to Morenga and what he withheld. If he made the wrong decision, and Morenga learned through another source what Rio had held back from him, there’d be trouble.
But sometimes, like now, his work for Morenga and his true job dovetailed.
“Any sign of the woman?” Rio asked.
“No.”
“All right. Thanks.” Rio ended the call. He debated whether to head up to Sankoh’s territory and deal with this directly, or utilize members of his network. Even if Sankoh hadn’t spotted the woman, she had to be nearby. As she was the one most likely to have the diamonds, she was the one Rio really needed.
Rio sighed. The diamonds were too important to leave in someone else’s hands. He’d have to make the trip himself.
Another informant had finally spotted the assassin driving north. Rio had sent two of Morenga’s contract operators to follow him, telling them that the assassin was a potential suspect in the theft of the diamonds.
Not likely, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. If the Neilson woman had received the diamonds on the bus, and been carrying them at the hangar or at the roundabout, Rio supposed she might have dropped them where the assassin could have picked them up.
Thin, but if the contractors ever leaked word about this mission, it might be enough of a justification to placate Morenga.
Rio suspected that the assassin was headed to the concert venue to wait for Hughes to show up with the woman. His contractors were under orders to simply observe the assassin and report back.
Rio fully intended to find the woman and retrieve the diamonds long before then. If he had to break Hughes out of Sankoh’s hold and use the pilot as bait for the woman, he’d do it.
Too much was at stake if he failed.
The impact of the rear right of the bus slamming into the rear left of the bakkie pushed the bakkie forward and threw Kirra—who was halfway out the window—against the frame. Her breath left her in a pained exhale as the edge of the window dug sharply into her stomach.
Momentum carried the bakkie into a spin. Kirra lost her balance and slid back inside the vehicle.
While she tried to catch her breath, the bus came to a halt. People streamed off it, and several ran toward the bakkie.
Kirra pulled herself off the floor as a man reached the driver’s door and yanked it open. He blinked at her in surprise. “It’s a white lady!”
So much for staying hidden.
The man held out his hand. Kirra snatched up her bag and accepted his help in climbing out of the cab.
“Are you all right?”
“What happened?”
“Why are you out here all alone?”
Kirra shook her head at the barrage of questions. “I—”
Something under the bonnet of the bakkie emitted a loud hiss. Smoke poured out.
The man tugged on Kirra’s arm.
“No, wait! My things.” If she could break free, she could escape into the trees.
A woman hurried up. She clucked sympathetically at Kirra, nudged the man out of the way, and took Kirra’s arm. “Come. You will join us,” the woman insisted, herding Kirra away from the bakkie. “We will give you a lift to the next town.”
Kirra glanced back. The first man had been joined by a second. He passed Seth’s pack to the second man and shouldered Kirra’s pack. Then the men strode after Kirra and the woman.
Kirra’s gaze shifted to the rear of the bakkie. The left lamp had shattered and the bumper had crumpled.
“Do not worry,” the second man said as he caught up with them. “I have a cousin who knows how to fix autos. He will come out tomorrow and retrieve your vehicle.” But from the doubt in his voice and the speculative look he gave the bakkie, he didn’t believe the vehicle belonged to her.
That was all right. She intended to be far away by morning.
She drew even with the dented rear bumper of the bus. “I’m sorry for the damage to the bus,” she said. “My engine died.”
The woman patted her arm. “It is not your fault. By God’s will, no one was injured.”
Kirra eyed the purple and black swirls that decorated the side of the bus. No wait. Those were musical notes. She tilted her head to study the items tied to the roof and recognized instrument cases and West African style drums. She did a double take. Was it possible she’d been found by a bus heading to the concert?
Most of the other passengers were already back on the bus, except the two men who had passed Kirra and her escort and now waited by the door. A man leaned out the door, looked back at Kirra and the woman, and called, “Hurry.” He pointed to his watch. “We must not be late.”
“I’m sorry,” Kirra said. “I don’t want to slow you down. I can—”
“Hush,” the woman at her side chided. “We are not in so great a rush that we cannot give you assistance.”
A young woman leaned out the window nearest the door. She said something to the man who’d helped Kirra out of the bakkie, pointed at Kirra, then held out her phone to the man. He glanced at the screen, frowned, then shot an assessing look at Kirra.
Not taking his eyes off her, he said something to the second man. The second man passed Kirra’s bag to someone inside the bus, then moved away until he stood between Kirra and the trees.
The first man shifted his weight forward as he watched Kirra and the woman approach.
Kirra flicked a glance to her right. Both men appeared fit enough to chase her down, but if she could break free of the woman’s grip and run toward the back of the bus, she might be able to dash across to the jungle before either man caught her. She flexed her arm, preparing to pull away from the woma
n’s grasp.
The driver loomed in the doorway of the bus, holding a shotgun. The first man said something to him and jerked his head in Kirra’s direction. The driver turned toward her, holding his weapon at waist level. Aimed at Kirra.
She couldn’t outrun a shotgun. Not at this close range.
Tamping down her frustration, Kirra kept a pleasant expression on her face as if she hadn’t recognized the threat. Her training kept her body relaxed as she let the woman lead her up to the door of the bus. The driver lowered his shotgun and stepped back, while the other two men watched Kirra board with an intensity that sent a shiver through her. Just what had she stumbled into?
The two men crowded into the well behind her. The driver took his seat and shut the door. Kirra didn’t like having the men at her back, but as she tried to move down the aisle, the woman in the first seat grinned and waved her cell phone at Kirra. “I know you. You are Kirra. One of the singers who will perform at the Shine a Light concert in the UAR.”
Kirra dredged up a smile. “That’s right.”
The woman started to say something else, but the driver barked, “Sit! We must go.”
The two men set the backpacks on the floor next to the driver. One of them put his hand on Kirra’s back, propelling her down the aisle. She twisted away from his touch. Aware that all eyes were watching her, she kept her chin up as she followed the woman deeper into the bus. While she moved, she mapped out potential exits and studied the people around her.
The passengers were a mix of men and women, none younger than thirteen or fourteen. Some of them nudged one another as Kirra passed, watching her as if she was the most fascinating thing in the world. Others gave her sullen glances that set her nerves on edge.
Something was definitely going on here. To be safe, she’d have to consider everyone on board an enemy who would block any attempt at escape.
Well, then. She’d just have to outsmart them.
Her escort stopped at an empty seat a few rows from the back and indicated for Kirra to sit by the window. Kirra hesitated, the memories of the attack on the bus still too fresh and painful.
The woman nudged her into the seat, then stepped out of the aisle to make room for the two men to pass by. “I am Florence Bonsu,” the woman said kindly as she settled beside Kirra. “You may call me Madame Florence.”
“As the woman up front said, I go by Kirra. No last name.”
Madame Florence studied her a moment. “You are truly performing at the concert?”
“Yes.”
“So, what brought you to this road after dark and all alone?”
Kirra shrugged and gave what she hoped was a guileless smile. “There was some trouble.” She glanced out the window and hugged her carryall to her chest. “I don’t even know where I am.”
“You are south of Aboaman where we are headed.”
Kirra remembered seeing that name on the map. If she headed east, in the direction they’d been walking, she’d reach the minor north-south road Seth had mentioned.
Thinking of Seth sent a pang through her. She distracted herself from worrying by saying, “I saw instruments on the roof. Are you also attending the concert?”
“Us?” Madame Florence laughed. “Oh, no. We are not so professional as all that. We are simply playing at the monthly festival.” She patted Kirra’s knee. “The tribal chief will be so pleased to meet a famous musician. You will surely be asked to perform.”
“Ah…” Kirra slid her hand into her pocket. “I’m not really all that famous. Plus, I normally play the guitar, but I…” Her throat tightened and she had to pause a moment. “I…ah…lost it.” She shrugged apologetically. “My songs aren’t really meant to be sung acoustic.” Not true. She could perform a cappella. But it was too dangerous for her to perform in public.
Madame Florence beamed at her. “Not to worry. We have a Kologo with us. If that will not suit, the chief is a great fan of international music. He has an extensive collection of instruments from around the world. I am certain we will find you an appropriate instrument.”
“Thank you.” During her music training, Kirra had played other two-string guitars similar to the Kologo, so she knew a couple of her songs could be adapted for the instrument. That still didn’t mean she would perform.
She turned her head away and stifled a yawn. “Sorry.”
Madame Florence nodded sympathetically. “Rest now. The night will be busy.”
“Rest now, Kirra. All will be better in the morning.” Simosihle kissed Kirra’s forehead and let herself out of the hospital room.
Grief rose inside Kirra in a gentle wave and pressed against her heart. Madame Florence had the same dark skin, wide face, and generosity of spirit as Simosihle, her late mentor. From the moment that Simosihle had stepped into Kirra’s hospital room for their first music therapy session, she’d known she could trust the older woman.
Madame Florence radiated a similar aura of calm and reassurance.
Kirra leaned her head on the window and closed her eyes. She missed Simosihle so much. The Zulu woman had initially taught her to sing. Once Kirra’s hands had healed from the attack, Simosihle had shown her how to play the guitar. Her mentor had helped Kirra embrace life again, yet when the cancer threatened the older woman, Kirra had been helpless to stop it from spreading. The best she’d been able to do was to sing and play her guitar for Simosihle during her final days.
Kirra surreptitiously wiped a tear off her cheek. Simosihle had handled her approaching death with far more grace than Kirra. One of her last requests was for Kirra to live life to the fullest.
She doubted these last couple of days were what Simosihle had envisioned, yet despite the fear and hardship, Kirra felt more alive than she had in years.
Keeping her ears open for any sounds of danger, she pretended to sleep. At this point, her best chance for escape would come when the bus stopped and the passengers disembarked. With everyone standing and jostling for position, she should be able to slip through the crowd, as in her pickpocket days. Once she made it away from the bus, she’d disappear into the town.
But when the bus finally stopped at a lorry park, the two men from earlier planted themselves at the end of Kirra’s row. Madame Florence stood and spoke sharply to them in the local dialect. The one who’d helped Kirra out of the bakkie shook his head and jerked his chin at her.
Kirra slipped her bag onto her back. A pile of overnight cases blocked the rear exit. She considered going over the seats to reach the front, but at a signal from the men the driver moved to block that end of the aisle.
Dammit.
Once the other passengers had exited, the two men allowed Madame Florence and Kirra to leave their seats. One of the men immediately grabbed Kirra’s arm. Madame Florence elbowed the other man out of the way and took Kirra’s hand.
“Do not worry, child,” she murmured. “They do not wish you harm. The chief is simply eager to meet you. My sister says the chief is a generous, kindly man who has done much good for the town.” But her eyes flickered with doubt and her words lacked conviction.
As the group moved awkwardly down the aisle, Kirra prepared to break free as soon as her feet touched ground. But when she reached the stairwell, four armed men moved into position at the base of the stairs. As soon as they spotted Kirra, they aimed their AK-47s at her.
Holding tightly to Kirra’s hand, Madame Florence launched into a tirade, gesturing sharply with her free hand. The leader of the armed men snarled something that caused Madame Florence to snap her mouth closed and glare at him. But she didn’t release Kirra’s hand.
“Our most honorable chief wishes to speak with you,” said the man who’d helped Kirra out of the bakkie.
Kirra decided that playing it cool was her best defense. So she smiled brightly, all the while using her peripheral vision to study her surroundings.
But no escape opportunity presented itself as the men escorted her across the lorry park and to the door of a small office. Mada
me Florence attempted to accompany Kirra inside, but two of the armed men held her back. The other two armed men and the two men from the bus entered the room with Kirra.
A man of medium height stood in front of the desk. He was dressed in a shining orange and gold Kente cloth tunic over crisply pressed, dark blue trousers. “Ah, Ms. Neilson, I am honored to meet you.”
He knew her full name. How? Had he been warned to look for her by the rebels, who had her name from her passport? She bowed her head slightly. “Thank you, sir. You are the tribal chief?”
He smiled as if her question had amused him. Had she broken some sort of protocol for meeting a chieftain?
“I am Chief Sankoh.”
The man Seth had warned her about. Had she been wrong? Had Seth told this man about Kirra? She kept her expression relaxed. “It is an honor to meet you, Chief Sankoh.”
Sankoh inclined his head regally. He spoke in the local language to the the two men from the bus, then the men nodded and left the room.
Sankoh turned back to Kirra. “I understand that you are an accomplished musician, Ms. Neilson. We will be honored to have you perform at our festival tonight.”
Kirra gave him an apologetic smile. “No, I’m sorry. I—”
“Oh, but you misunderstand me, Miss Neilson.” The grin he threw her had a dark edge that put her instincts on alert. “That was not a request. That was an order.” Without losing his jovial expression, Sankoh reached behind him and held out a tattered, bloody shirt.
Kirra’s body stilled, although her mind raced. She’d last seen Seth wearing that shirt. She recognized the tear the assassin’s bullet had made on the upper arm. Meeting Sankoh’s eyes, she shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “What does that shirt have to do with me?”
“Ah, you have spirit. I appreciate that. As you well know, this shirt belongs to the pilot Michael Hughes.”
Wait. Wasn’t Michael the name Seth had called out when he’d been sleeping? What was going on?
Sankoh held out a wallet and flipped it open. Next to an identification photo of Seth was the name Michael Hughes.