Now that I have royally pissed off one of the most lethal people in all Sangui City by holding his brother counter-hostage, all we have to do is the near-impossible: break Michael out. The next part of the plan is that Boyboy slips away and we carry Ketchup farther into the forest and hide him. Then Boyboy takes the phone and makes a run for it. He’ll contact Mr. Greyhill and let him know what’s happening. After all, if I’m going to do my part and steal Michael and a motorcycle out from under Omoko’s nose, we need to know that Mr. G’s helicopter is going to be ready and waiting.
It was Boyboy’s idea to use the satellite phone’s GPS to both tag where we stash Ketchup and tell Mr. G where we are. Boyboy needs to get Mr. G to bring the chopper to the closest possible landing site down the road. One of Mr. Greyhill’s guards will go retrieve Ketchup. The others will hide in the bushes in case Michael and I need covering fire as we’re hauling ass to get to our ride out.
So. As long as Boyboy can find and convince Mr. G that we need his help, and as long as I can rescue Michael, steal a motorcycle, create a petrol-fueled diversion, and make a lightning-quick escape without getting caught, shot, or blown up in the process, it’s a perfect plan.
In Boyboy’s words, the only thing crazier is staying put.
Of course, if Boyboy isn’t able to slip away, the whole plan will self-destruct before it even gets started. I look back at him. He has a familiar frown on his face, the one he gets when he’s calculating something.
“I’m going to make a run for it,” he whispers.
“Not yet—they’ll catch you!”
He shakes his head slightly. “They’re drunk. I’m quick.”
I hesitate. He is. Sort of. For a computer nerd. But still . . . if they see him, he’s dead.
“It’s going to work,” he says. The look on his face says he knows he’s dead anyway. “Make a distraction so I can get a head start. Now!”
“Wait! The diversion comes later,” I begin, but he’s already on his feet, crouched down, ready to run. Someone’s going to notice him, and before they do, I have to act. I grab a stick from the ground and fling it as hard as I can toward the kitchen area. It careens into a pot, which knocks over a propane stove, which goes crashing into a tall stack of metal dishes. It all makes a terrific noise. The men shout, stumble to their feet. As they’re looking in that direction, Boyboy leaps up and we take off through the forest. I’m terrified that at any second a hand will clamp down on me from behind, but we make it to Ketchup without anyone coming after us.
“What did you do to him?” Boyboy asks as I sweep away the debris from my captive’s face.
“Nothing he didn’t deserve.”
I grab his legs and Boyboy picks him up under the arms and we run as fast as we can toward the rising sun. I keep waiting for Ketchup to wake up and struggle, but he stays limp. When I think we’ve gone far enough I stop, looking for a good spot. “There.”
We’re drenched in sweat, and the dirt and dried leaves cling to us as Boyboy and I quickly dig a little trench next to a boulder. We shove him in and I use the ties from my pocket to attach his hands to a tall sapling that’s sprung up from under the rock. Then we cover him again with brush. As I’m finishing, Boyboy marks the spot on the phone’s GPS.
“It’s like we’re digging a grave,” Boyboy finally says.
“He’s not going to die,” I say. “He can’t.”
Boyboy finishes and frowns at the phone. “There’s no reception here. I’m going to have to move.”
“Head for the road. I think it’s that way.” I point.
“Okay, I’ll meet you at the helicopter.” Boyboy’s face is grim. “Be careful.”
“You too.”
? ? ?
The camp is utter chaos.
My distraction worked—maybe too well. By the time I get back, there are about forty dudes running around yelling at each other and the kitchen tent is ablaze.
Apparently the propane stove I knocked over exploded, which isn’t great, seeing as I’d been counting on a later explosion to cover Michael’s and my escape. But maybe if I can get Michael out quickly, there will still be enough mayhem.
There’s a one-eared militia guy who must be the leader screaming orders in the middle of the clearing. It looks like he’s realized his prisoners have escaped. I watch him catch a couple of militia guys and send them out into the forest. If they’re after us, though, they’re going the wrong way. So that’s something. I don’t see Mr. Omoko anywhere. I hope to God he isn’t in the tent with Michael, because that’s where I’m headed.
The guys who were guarding Michael have run to help put out the fire that’s spreading from the kitchen tent to a tree. The smoke from the green leaves is lucky. It makes everything hazy. I wait until I’m sure no one is watching, then run in a crouch to the back of Michael’s tent, where I’m blocked from the view of most of the camp. I quickly pull the tent flaps apart a centimeter and try to get a look inside. It’s dark and I can’t see much more than shapes. I’m just going to have to risk it; I’m an easy target out here. I take another quick glance around and then slip in. For a second I’m blinded and panic swells in me.
“Who’s there?”